Oh come on now.

The false labor, it’s killing me. Oh it hurts. And how for the love of Christ has it not regulated into anything yet? Every twenty minutes this morning until I fell asleep during Martha and then, nothing for hours. And then a couple irregular ones. And then nothing. And then four in the last hour.

And it’s not just the suspense that hurts but the contractions themselves. Hoo. And Owen sees me grimacing and says, “You not mad, Mama. I give you a hug. I give you a kiss. You mad, Mama? Mama? Mama, you mad?” and I love him to death but there are a few rare instances in a woman’s life where the pitch of a toddler’s voice is worse than a jackhammer to the skull.

So. For the most part I am doing fine, enjoying the last few days here, making myself a little nest on the couch. But every once in a while … well. I certainly am looking forward to that epidural. And the baby, of course. But right now? The epidural.

40 weeks, 6 days.

Trooping ever onward, like a good little soldier. Renewed faith that I am doing the right thing by letting Flipper stew a touch longer. I moped around yesterday morning (when I wasn’t sleeping) miserable and sad that something was wrong with him and it would be my fault for not dragging him out forcefully when the doc gave me an opportunity. But after more sleep and a shower and a glass of Dr Pepper and a swing through the internet, I realized that everything was fine and I just had to suck it up, the being pregnant.

Besides, twist my arm, you know? More days to put my feet up and eat bananas and watch Martha Stewart. Life could be worse.

Whilst googling ‘inducing pregnancy’ I also came across a little web page that mentioned “prodromal labor.” Yay, a medical term to look up! Yay, validation for the way I am feeling! Basically it means “false labor,” but not that wussy false labor I mock other people for, people who have not been having a BITCH of a time with the braxton hicks since month four. This prodromal stuff, this is the good stuff. This is the stuff that takes your breath away and yet never fucking organizes into productive labor. This is what has had me crazy over the last week or two, getting ready to time contractions only to watch the pattern peter out after an hour.

So. As I am the type of person to find great relief in reading reassuring words from “experts”, seeing that I am not crazy and that things will, eventually, move along in their own sweet time cheered me up considerably.

I think we’ll have this guy by the end of this weekend. Although, considering that our backup and our backup-backup Owen care are both home sick today, and they are the only other people authorized to retrieve him from day care — watch, it’ll happen today. Murphy’s law and all that. (Despite the fact Murphy’s Law didn’t work last week).

Hrrrm. Must develop backup-to-the-third-power plan. Shall get on that after I finish this banana and take a nap.

Still here!

My parents left this morning. Doc called an hour ago to offer me an induction tomorrow; something about somebody going somewhere and there being a spot open. He talks very softly so I couldn’t really follow all of it.

But I told him I’d pass and give Flipper a little more time to get going on his own. Doc didn’t seem very pleased with me but I had to do what feels right. This isn’t to say that I am not open to an induction later this week, especially if any post-term testing indicates a problem. But I just don’t feel like I’ve given Flipper enough of a chance to get off the couch and start heading for the exit.

I’ve been wracking my brain for something, ANYthing, other than this dadgum pregnancy to write about today, but I have nothing. Couldn’t even make small talk about the Orioles if you had a gun to my head.