Labor, Day Six

I'm still pregnant.

I'm going to be honest--I'm a little ambiguous about that right now. I know that Emma needs to stay in there as long as possible, and I really want her to. I really really want her to not come until she's good and healthy and ready to meet the world. But these have seriously been 36 of the hardest weeks ever. I spent the first 2/3 of it so sick I lost ten pounds and could barely function. Once that let up it has been one thing after another--pre-term labor at 24 weeks, weird kidney issues, horrid reflux, and now another pre-term labor (but kicked up like twenty notches). When I was in hospital on Saturday the midwife jokingly asked if I was trying to have a baby that day. It took everything in me to not sob and scream, "oh my gosh, get her out I just want to be done." After two days of intense labor, while things have thankfully calmed down, I still have had painful contractions throughout each day since. We've got a sweet heat wave going here, and with Matt working so hard to cook and clean and take care of Ben he hasn't had the time or energy to put in the window air conditioning unit that we bought a while ago and has been sitting in the garage. The temperature has not dropped below 80 degrees inside our house, even at night--it's often hovering around 90. Which means that I've spent the last five days of bedrest laying on the couch sweating and completely unable to leave or change anything. I have a heat rash all along the backs of my legs. I haven't slept in days because the contractions and the heat make it impossible, and because Miss Emma is sitting in the birth canal using my bladder as a yoga mat. So while I desperately want to keep her in there as long as possible because that's what I'm supposed to want, I also want this Hades to end. And yes, I know that once she comes my life will be infinitely harder. I know life with two kids will be more exhausting than I can even imagine. And I have no delusions of grandeur when it comes to the newborn stage--I've done it, and it's awful (yes, I know that my sweet little girl's face will melt me and I will love her infinitely and it's all worth it, yada yada...colic blows). But I've been in labor for a week. And I've had a rough pregnancy. 36 weeks is a really long time to feel like hell. To be so physically pummeled and still attempt to coherently teach, maintain a home, play with my kid, and smile and be cheerful and friendly and happy. To rarely be able go to birthday parties and baby showers and church or even coffee with a friend.  So confession time: part of me wants to make it to the finish line, part of me wants the finish line to come to me. I am so grateful for all of the support from people around me. And I'm grateful for the encouragement. But another confession: sometimes the encouragement makes me feel worse. Sometimes the reminders that it's all worth it make me feel like crap, because it makes me feel like I don't have a right to hate all this. Like I should be just grateful to be participating in the miracle of life instead of feeling like it's okay if, while it is completely worth it, it's also completely miserable. Probably most of that is me and my issues; no one has ever invalidated my struggle. But there it is. The truth is that if I'm really honest with myself, when I go in to my midwife tomorrow, I'm really hoping there is an end in sight, and that it's sooner rather than later. Because I'm hot and tired and frick these contractions hurt.

Just so I don't leave you feeling like I'm circling the emotional drain, you should know that I'm actually on an upswing. Yesterday my friend and her daughter came to spend some time with B and me, which was a welcome distraction. This morning my mom came for a bit to play with B while I read and slept a little. Then I said, "Screw bedrest. I need to get out of this sauna." So we went to the mall for a short while, then I took Ben to get a haircut (I promise I sat down and rested frequently). Then we went to B's swimming lesson (aaaaaaahhhh...cool water). The house is covered in cars and the sink is full of dishes, but I don't care.

I do, however, care that as I typed that sentence Ben emerged from his room; apparently he thinks 30 minutes is an appropriate nap. I beg to differ. Especially considering that as soon as he was out he did this:

Then he said he had to go pee, which reminds me that before his nap he peed on the floor, then pooped in his new pull-up about two minutes later. Which brings us back to the present. He pitched a fit when I wouldn't give him his new car (his prize for going a whole day without an accident). I put him back in his bed because he obviously needs more sleep, and he promptly started screaming and throwing things (obviously I'm wrong here--he's clearly well-rested).

So much for break time. Sigh. That was a short upswing.