At this point, it has basically been a whole month since I have done any kind of pregnancy update. Mostly, this is because I’ve never felt like doing a picture. I actually tried to do one last week, but they all turned out awful. And you aren’t getting one today—after working in the garden in 85 degree weather, I’m just not even going to try.
Honestly, I probably wouldn’t be doing an update today if I didn’t feel a little bit like my hand was being forced. But, you know, sometimes other people talk about things you hadn’t planned on discussing, so you feel like you need to explain.
If you are a man and go to church with me, for the love of all things holy, run. NOW.
Friday afternoon, I woke up from my nap to find that I was a little, um, damp. (I warned you.) I monitored the situation for a little while, then decided to call my midwife. You see, when I was pregnant with Wyatt, I went through the exact same thing for a few days. Then my water totally broke. But that was ok since I was past my due date that time. This time, I was much more concerned about the situation. My midwife suggested that I wait and see if anything had changed by the next morning. The problem came and went for the rest of the day.
Saturday afternoon, during my baby shower, my mother asked me if I was still having problems. While I was getting refreshments. I told her that we would talk about it later since, you know, I really didn’t think Miss Manners would sign off on discussing the relative humidity of my unmentionables over cake and punch.
(How the heck would you determine that one? About fifteen percent? Twenty? I’ve never been very good at rating things. Just like those stupid smiley face pain assessment charts that are in every single labor and delivery room.
Since they have never handed me a mirror when they ask me to rate my pain, you would think they would be a little more qualified to judge—seeing as how they are LOOKING AT MY FACE while they ask. Anyhow…)
So, I thought I had dodged any public discussion of my private parts.
When I woke up Sunday morning, the problem had returned. I decided it was time to go have things checked out. We decided that Sean and the kids would go to church, and I would go to the hospital.
Shortly before they left, Noah came up to me and said, “Mommy, you’re LEAKING?”
No matter how many times I have pointed it out to him, my husband still hasn’t figured out that there are certain things you shouldn’t say to little kids because they will, invariably, repeat them.
I told Noah that under no circumstance was he to discuss that with people at church. So, of course, I was not surprised to learn that when Sean went to get Caleb from the nursery, Noah took the opportunity to announce to every adult present that his mommy was leaking.
Of course, it appears that his grandmother may have rivaled him in the discretion department that day, so I guess I can’t give him too much grief about it.
I am considering teaching my husband a lesson, though. You see, he justified sharing that information with the kids by telling me that he thought it would be good to explain to them how the baby is floating in water in my tummy so they would learn more about what was going on with the pregnancy. So I’m thinking I’ll tell them when I lose my mucous plug. And when they ask what that means? I’ll send them to daddy. He’s good at explaining those pregnancy things.
So, yes, I did go to the hospital yesterday morning. And, no, they do not think that I am “leaking.” Which leaves little explanation for the issue. Well, ok, they did give me one possible explanation, but I feel very certain that it isn’t what is happening.
For now, I’ll just shrug my shoulders, watch, and wait. I’m not going to let it slow me down (even more). I spent the day doing housework and the evening hoeing. The garden, that is. As opposed to ho-ing which, based on the looks and comments that I have been getting recently from some rather skanky-looking men, there appears to be a certain subset of the male population that thinks I am currently qualified for.