Lousy Practice

Sooo . . . I think that what happened to me Friday night was false labor. It’s not an experience I’ve had before, but I was woken from a sound sleep by painful contractions and spent most of the night sitting in a tepid bath, drinking ice water and freaking out. There are ways in which it was like real labor, the most worrying being the feeling that I needed to sit on a toilet and stay there (I know that’s gross, but I think I’m not the only one who’s had that feeling when in labor. Not that I’ve seen that in any pregnancy books!), but the contractions only felt about 70 percent as strong as the real thing, and I didn’t have the sense that it was baby time. But I was pretty worried for the little bird, and in pain.

Since then, I’ve just been brooding about the experience; insofar as I can tell, I’m not at any real risk for preterm labor, but while the little bird might very well survive if born now . . . it wouldn’t be ideal, you know? I’m pretty sure that a brain bleed would be a certainty at this point, and it seems hard enough to be born under the best of circumstances—being born this early would be so hard on a tiny guy. He only weighs about two and a half pounds, for heaven’s sake. I’ve sent an email to the midwives explaining what happened and asking what, if anything, I should be doing, as well as whether I should be worried. My mother told me that false labor can be brought on by dehydration, but I’ve been drinking like a mad creature for a very long time now. Perhaps I can blame stress?

And speaking of stress, I really wish that I’d considered ahead of time the possibility that spending a night (fifteen hours altogether) split between Wal-Mart and our car would really not be a good experience for my back. Between that and the eventful night on Friday, we would probably have had to cancel the visit even if not for our car troubles; I was a zombie all weekend, and now I’m writing this up at 4 a.m. Monday morning, having been unable to sleep so far. Perhaps as a result, I’ve been getting really sick if I eat anything other than bland food. (And for whatever reason, I am craving Kashmiri naan.) Not that things have been all bad recently—last night I went to sleep with my hand against the little bird’s foot, jammed up near my ribs, and it was almost like holding hands.