And lo, a child was not quite born.

9 years ago tonight I was feeling mighty uncomfortable. I had gained a whopping 80 pounds, and at 8 days past due, and very profoundly pregnant, I was pretty pissed off. My new nursing bra - a 38J - was washed and ready to go.......only it was a little too small. I didn't know what  size came after "J" and I didn't want to find out - but the nurses had warned me that when my milk came in I was going to go up several additional cup sizes. We decided to wait and see just how freaky I was going to get before investing in any more of these "undergarments". I didn't fit in the shower stall anymore - at least, not with the door all the way closed. I was badly in need of a shave, but I hadn't seen my legs in months and I was not even close to coordinated or limber enough to get the razor where I would need it to go. I had stopped wearing pants because not only could I not reach far enough to get the pants hooked over my feet (and let's just pause for a moment and picture me rolling around on my back with my legs all frogged up around my belly, trying desperately to catch my feet with the pants)  but even if my husband DID help me get them on they stopped right above the knee and refused to go any further up. In response, I was also refusing: Refusing to buy any new, larger clothes so close to my due date. I was now limited to a 20 year old flannel nightgown with a hole in the armpit and bedroom slippers.

I was a fat, miserable, bitchy cow. And proud of it. And if I could have been bothered to put down my box of Dunkin Donuts for more then the five minutes it took to pee, I might have smacked you right across the face for commenting on my size, and the imminent delivery of the child/parasite I was lugging around. It was December in Massachusetts. I was simultaneously cold (feet and hands) and hot (everywhere else) and itchy and dry and aggravated. And I needed a drink and some caffeine in the worst way.

I can only imagine what my dear, darling, incredibly patient husband must have thought of the entire situation.

The fact that we had gone through so much time and effort and trouble and money to get me in this condition.
The idea that he had ever in a million years ever wanted to hit that.
The thought that he might be married to this beast for the rest of his life. That *this* was his new reality.

This was what he had to look forward to. His darling, formerly hot wife, eating and bitching and watching TV and heaving herself out of bed with considerable assistance to pee every hour or so, at least until they finally put that fucking catheter in. That catheter was a blessing, I no longer had any reason at all to get up - more time for donuts. The fact that he had not yet run screaming into the winter chill is a Christmas miracle in and of itself, I assure you.



But despite all of the discomfort and spider veins and boxes of donuts and ripped maternity pants, we were happy and excited. And tonight, this very night, we were in the labor and delivery room. Sami was snoring in the recliner. I was sitting in the bed with a shiny new epidural that I did not want, that the anesthesiologist had administered at the urging of my night nurse and I guess my midwife......things were not going well. I wanted to be in the tub, not lying in the bed. The contractions had slowed down considerably. I had been induced 36 hours ago, and was still not progressing. And now I was angry. And I was still, and seemingly forevermore, pregnant.

That was 9 years ago tonight.