What a weekend we had.
Our former Pastor and his wife Linda, whom we love like they were our own parents, came up to visit this weekend from Virginia. We spent lots of time with them and even did a little early-fall apple picking, capped off with apple cider donuts for the kids and big kids. It was absolutely delicious spending time with them.
On Saturday, in the evening, we were sitting around my parents' pool, talking and laughing, when I realized that I was having contractions. Like, pretty regularly. So I said, "I don't mean to alarm anyone, but I'm having lots of contractions and they're starting to be kind of uncomfortable." We started timing them and they were only about 6-8 minutes apart. I called the doctor, who, based on my previous experiences of pushing out babies in about 10 minutes, thought it would be prudent to get checked out at the hospital.
Such excitement! I've never rushed to the hospital, because I've never gone into labor on my own and have only been induced, which begins with a rather anti-climactic waltzing arrival to the labor and deliver unit desk and announcing, "Uhhh... I'm here to have my baby."
I was super excited with the idea of having the baby when Pastor and Linda were here, and promised them I would do all I could to have the baby this weekend. (They were my first visitors at the hospital when I had Michaela, so there was a whole nostalgia angle as well.) We all agreed that the full moon lighting up the night sky would only help our cause. So you can imagine our collective anticipation as we left: Dan thrilled to be finally doing a "I'm rushing my wife to the hospital, Officer... she's in LABOR!" ride; I thrilled that the pregnancy may possibly be over and get to meet our little man; my family thrilled about getting a new grandchild, and Pastor and Linda being here to witness the whole thing.
But, alas, it was not meant to be.
I got into a room, got hooked up to the monitors, and signed some paperwork. (One of the consents was whether we wanted to hospital or our pediatrician to give the baby the first dose of a hepatitis vaccine. Ummmm... yeah: I have no idea. We decided to trust the NYS Department of Health's recommendation that the baby get it in the hospital within 12-24 hours of birth. But really? I can't imagine being in REAL LABOR and having to make that decision.) We watched the numbers on the computer screen which showed the baby's heartrate and tracked my contractions. The contraction pattern of the woman who was setup in the room before me was still on the screen, and it was obvious from the giant peaks and prolonged plateaus of her contractions that she was clearly giving birth. Dan looked at those and compared them to my little blips of contractions.
"Harumph!" says Dan. "Yours are nothing compared to that lady's contractions!"
"Dan," I stated as patiently and calmly as I could, "my contractions barely even hurt at this point. She was, I would guess, a little further along in the process than I am now."
After awhile a midwife came in and checked me and announced that nothin' was goin' on up there and I could go home.
But it was a good refresher on the whole process and all our paperwork is on file for a month so we don't have to sign papers/ answer questions/ give medical history if I show up to deliver for real before October 5th. Which seems like FOREVER FROM NOW but remember: Michaela was also due on September 23rd and didn't arrive until 15 days later on October 8th.
But really: who wants to deal with a woman on her third baby who is 15 DAYS over her due date?? I have said many times that you can do that to someone on their first baby, but I am waaaay too savvy now to let that foolishness happen again.
I don't care WHO I have to beg for pitocin.