The carpet beetle situation is still too traumatic to write about (and I'm not done digging out The Pit), and Amy Lane made me sentimental over on her blog, so you're all stuck hearing about how the Goober got born. (Unlike Amy, I did not go into labor over the X Files. I'm gonna laugh about that all day.) Don't worry, it's a funny story. Everything seems to be when I tell it.
Well. The Goob was a planned kid, and I'd made the plan when I married the husbeast at the ripe old age of 23. I didn't want to haul a kid around the world with the Navy, so I would wait until he was near retirement and my reproductive tract was on its last gasp, and have a kid. Simple.
Except at age 23 it's impossible to take into account the concept of AGING. Other than AGE, the whole thing went well enough.
So at age 36, there I am, pregnant for the first time, which in retrospect was a really hare-brained thing to do on purpose. But, whatever. You make your choices, you live with the fallout. There was much fuss made over me being adopted (no genetic history, and no idea how I'd do in labor), and also me being old. I was sent off for genetic counseling at one point, at the high-risk pregnancy center. They were used to dealing with women with MAJOR health problems, or daily cocaine habits, so they almost giggled at me, sitting there wringing my hands and worrying over the two glasses of wine I'd had (on different days) before I realized I was pregnant. Never realized before, how comforting it is to be almost-laughed-at.
So anyway. What with one thing and another, I was done with the whole pregnancy thing as a novel concept by, oh, month five, and ready and raring to give birth by week 38. The kid was done, everybody out of the oven, was my thought. I started obsessing about what would happen if I went overdue and how long I'd have to BE overdue before they'd induce me. I was all in favor of scheduling my inducement the day after my due date, but no one would commit to anything. With hormones raging, feeling like I was fifteen months pregnant, I was going batshit crazy.
Nothing is quite as crazy as an 8 1/2 month pregnant woman, obsessing on childbirth. Men, get out of the way. Duck and cover.
I was due on, no joke, Labor Day. I'm telling you, things in my life just fall into place for joke-telling.
Anyway. For those overseas, I'll explain. Labor Day is on a Monday, always, so folks who get it off can have a three day weekend. And as a federal employee, the husbeast always got Labor Day off. So in my psycho-pregnant-woman state of mind, I was thinking, I could go into labor Saturday, and we'd have the other two days to get things together before work on Tuesday (even though the hub got paternity leave and it didn't matter when I went into labor... did I mention I was psycho?)
Saturday rolled around and I started having what I thought were Braxton-Hicks contractions, or false labor. I'd been having those since month five, if I stood up for more than three or four minutes at a time. Whoopee, I thought. But, ever hopeful, I started timing them and walking around the house a lot in the hopes something would happen.
Nothing. Or at least I didn't think so. Too far apart, too weak, and they didn't feel like contractions had been described to me. So I'd pace some more, mutter to myself, and time things some more. The husbeast, wise man, stayed the hell out of my way. As I recall he mostly huddled in the recliner watching TV and left the rest of the house to me.
After two days of pacing, I gave up. Nothing. All those damn false-labor contractions that didn't even hurt (have I mentioned I have a high pain tolerance?) and too far apart to mean anything.
By Monday, I was having a full-blown pity-party. The hub went off to a party with his friends (I sent him; he had a cell phone and I knew I was in a horrible mood), and I stayed home and ate everything in the house and pouted.
Tuesday morning, about the time the husbeast was arriving at work, I got out of bed and realized I was bleeding. Not a lot, just a spot or two. The Goober was kicking away, just fine (she took up clog dancing around month six), so I assumed it was the normal stuff related with, hello, GOING INTO LABOR. Yay! Still didn't feel any 'real' contractions according to the nurses and mothers I'd spoken to, but who cared? They could induce me. I remember calling the doctor's office and them putting me on hold to talk to the doctor, and coming back and telling me, yes, to go to the hospital. And I remember thinking "thanks so much for the permission honey, but I was going anyway. This is a courtesy call."
Checking into the hospital, the nurse wanted to know when I'd last eaten. I said, "Uh, Heath bars, two AM." She looked up, said "Pity party?" I said yes. She grinned, patted my foot, and kept on writing.
The doc (the doc I liked) examined me, and we talked, and he said I'd been in labor for FOUR DAYS. Apparently as a first time mother with a high pain tolerance, I was just too dumb and tough to realize it. Emphasis on the dumb. So they induced me, about ten hours later I had the Goob, and a good time was had by all.
You know, those contractions NEVER DID feel like they were described to me. Even when I pushed the kid out. So it was NOT MY FAULT I was in labor for four days. Really. Honest. Okay, it was, but how in hell was I to know?
Everything in my life turns into a circus, one way or another. Took me thirty years to learn to sit back and enjoy the ride.