Well, Braxton and Hicks at least had the decency to stop by

Yesterday, I thought something interesting might be happening. And by interesting, I mean childbirth. Around 9 a.m., I felt some curiously strong cramping in my midsection. I acted casual. An hour later, I realized I had felt this cramping at regular intervals for a decent period of time. And then it occurred to me it might be contractions. I called Big K at work and informed him of the situation. He said, "Okay, good, well, keep me in the loop." I screamed at him (with good humor) for using stereotypical workplace jargon re: the matter of his unborn child. He happened to be in a meeting at the time, and put me on speakerphone unbeknownst to me while I went off on him for being a tool. His female coworkers then cheered and I felt a little awkward.

But anyhow, this show continued on for several hours. I kept expecting the contractions to, you know, get strong. Big K came home around lunchtime and found himself far too excited to return to work. I said, "You're just excited you could possibly become a dad to a son today." And he said, "Or a daughter." And then I loved him a lot. He then took to the internets trying to discern if what I was experiencing was real or fake labor. The jury was out but he was pissing himself either way. He advised that I take a walk to get things going more. I walked. I contracted like a maniac the whole time. I was thinking the big show might actually be impending. But as the afternoon progressed, it became more and more apparent I was not progressing in any meaningful way. The contractions kept coming, and some actually hurt a bit, but they never consistently got stronger. So I did what any rational human would do, which was to keep my appointment for a hair cut and color in a town about half an hour away. Big K was beyond nervous as I walked out the door, but the salon in question is in the town where I will deliver Circus, so I theorized that should I actually kick into high gear, I'd just have the lady rinse my head and I'd be at the hospital even quicker than if I were at home. Besides, I don't think I even had my hair trimmed until Phook was like 9 months old, since I couldn't get her off the boob long enough to actually have my head attended to, and I didn't want to miss my last opportunity this calendar year to tidy up my split ends before Circus shows up. I mean, come on, that's reasonable, right?

So I went, I was colored and cut, I contracted, I got a sub sandwich complete with lots of forbidden lunch meat, and I made it home without incident. Last night I tossed and turned and didn't do a whole lot of sleeping, as per usual. I occasionally had a random contraction throughout the night and a few on and off today, but things have definitely quieted since yesterday's excitement.

Today, it was time for my regularly scheduled non-stress test and my final OB appt. that is scheduled prior to my due date. Circus remains the happiest little parasite I could possibly harbor. My blood pressure remains steady. My doctor commented today that I have less swelling than she does (for the record, she isn't pregnant), said I looked great, and reassured me that she is very confident that Circus is doing very well in his/her bunker. She then checked my maximum security cervix and found that the sonofabitch remains thick and pretty damned near closed, although she allowed that I am dilated to "a fingertip," which is apparently what they say when you are not even 1 centimeter but they don't want you to cry. When I relayed this to my sister she said, "Dude, do not discount the fingertip. That is something. If someone said they had driven an ice pick into your forehead to the depth of a fingertip, you would definitely be concerned. A fingertip is huge." Leave it to the Hosedog.

So, here I am, back at home. I am sharing my chair with two cats. I went to bed once already tonite around 10 p.m., but insomnia, chronic urination, and my theory that Circus and his/her octopus-caliber limbs have turned completely sideways in my womb have driven me to the blog. This will be followed by an attempt to sleep on the couch. This will be followed by me fingerpainting a bunch of rage-filled sleep-centric imagery throughout the first floor of my home with condiments. This will be followed by me trying to pluck the unicycle my sister requested as a gift during one of her more eccentric childhood phases from the depths of my parents' shed in their backyard, probably sometime around 4 a.m., after which I will be attempting to teach myself to ride it in the raging thunderstorms we are currently experiencing in the hopes of bringing on real labor. This will be followed by sunrise and my tear-streaked face begging Big K to go somewhere and get me a dozen donuts, preferably spiked with a disturbingly strong sedative.

I think, dear friends, that I am ready to say that I want this baby out, even knowing that that means a wee babe with a tiny stomach and a big appetite is going to be thrust into my bra for the foreseeable future. Newborn amnesia is clearly a factor, and I may scoff at this post in six weeks when I am in the throes of new-mom fatigue (Now with more 21-month-old!), but as of right now, I feel that the d-word is applicable. I am done. Braxton and Hicks, please alert your relative, the one that actually demands a commitment before jumping into bed with just anyone (unlike you two promiscuous assholes) that I am ready to seal the deal.