Trick or Treat, Part I

We knew by the time that we hit October 25th (my original due date) that my OB would not let me go past 41 weeks.  If I did not go into labor on my own, we were getting checked into the hospital on the night of October 30th.  I was pretty disappointed that I hadn’t gone into labor on my own, but was still hoping that the induction would just be a jump start, and that my body would take the wheel at some point.  I decided that in order to feel better about the induction, I needed to just accept that this was the situation I was in, and embrace it.  So I went to Party City and bought Halloween decorations for my hospital room.

Day dawned on the 30th with no action, so Husband went to work, and my mom and I prepared to spend the day quietly freaking out and finding ways to spend time that did not involve thinking about the induction.  Mom and I loaded up the car with my labor bags and headed to a walkable shopping center in Houston to distract us for a few hours before heading into the OB’s office to get a final verdict.

Several store clerks asked when I was due, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get a little bit of joy out of saying, “Five days ago,” and watching their expressions change from passive interest to vague horror that I was going to drop a baby right there on their floor.  We popped into a lingerie store, where I waddled around muttering, “Excuse me, do you have this in size Shamu?”  We went to lunch, and I ordered a sandwich that had approximately 8 different varieties of pork.

It wasn’t until we were pulling into the parking garage at the hospital that I realized that the pork festival I’d just imbibed in was possibly not a good idea, as there were going to be untold people in my nether regions in the next hour or so, and the likelihood that I would…uh…process the sandwich before then was slim to none.  And then I remembered that pooping on the delivery table was a common occurrence, and realized that a giant pork poop was a definite possibility.  My mom asked how I was feeling, and I told her, “Well, I feel like the OB is going to get the business end of the Havana sandwich.  It’s going to be a literal shit show.”  We both started laughing hysterically, half from the mental image of the horrified faces of the doctors and nurses who would have to deal with the aftermath of my Pork Product Fiesta, and partly from nervousness about what was about to happen.

This is a perfect example of why I am in no way qualified to raise a functional human.  Too late now, though.


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