I'll spare you the grimace-inducing details, but I am mildly, delicately, and not-very-convincingly hopeful that we're making some progress toward birthing this child. I'm going to be honest, I sort of hate being as in tune with my body as I've been forced to be the last couple of days. I mean, after 28 years, I generally know what the heck is up with this ol' frame most of the time, but all that has shot straight to the crapper over the last several days.
After consulting the brilliant minds of the internet (and, to be fair, the nurse at my doctor's office) I have been assured that I will either have this baby today, maybe right NOW, or else sometime before, say, Easter.
It's all very comforting.
On Sunday evening, I asked Paddy to take me on a drive. It was a prospect that allowed me to leave the house while still looking like a total slob. We enjoyed a little jaunt around the valley, and then made it all the way back to within two doors of my house before I had to leap out of the car and heave my Crystal Light into the fresh snow outside my neighbors' house. So classy.
(Guess I'm not sparing you all of the details after all.)
Since that time, I've managed to hold a tenuous grip on a pudding cup and half of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Everything else, including water, has made a hasty exit.
All possibly-legitimate symptoms aside, I'll tell you what gives me the most hope. (Besides the induction which is already scheduled for a few short days from now, obviously.) After getting sick (again!) this morning, I had a strange and powerful desire to eat an entire breakfast burrito from Beto's.
Out of respect for my digestive system, I declined, but come on. It's got to mean something, right?