In a word? Trippy. Like there is no boundary between the perception of and the generation of others' emotion, like external stimuli come into and through my head, like I have no skin. I didn't expect that.
In several words? Exciting, weird, and elephantishly uncomfortable. Imagine how a balloon feels when it's about to burst, then turn it from thin light plastic into a heavy unweildy metal tank balloon -- that's late 3rd-trimester pregnancy, uncomfortable twice constantly. But practice labor is very different, so at first -- the first two nights in which I spent more than 5 hours blowing bubbles every time my abdomen turned into a hard-packed basketball -- the excitement of the new sensations was welcome. Practice contractions are about as comfortable as they seem like they would be, possibly slightly less so, but I thought intense sensations meant I was getting somewhere, and it was a relief from the monotonous aching pissiness.
Brian was timing the waves every time he saw me blowing bubbles from the Bubble shower party favor around my neck, and when he said "Top of the minute, 4 minutes, consistent," my internal response was "Oh f#$%!!" The second night this happened for more than 4 hours straight, we called doula Stephanie who drove down from Ft. Collins to spend the night and escort us into the birthing center as planned. Everything looked like it was really happening.
It wasn't. Whew. I got to rest again. And now I've replaced raspberry tea (which stimulates uterine contractions) with occasional sips of Aaron Hart's delicious hard cider, since an old hippy antidote for preterm labor is alcohol. It won't stop Bubble from coming when she's ready, apparently, but it will stop me spending hours in an intensely vulnerable mental and physical state, going through labor that isn't really labor. Bubble's squirming around in my distended tummy as I type, so all is well -- another gorgeous Colorado day -- and one morning closer to looking into her eyes.
No comments:
Post a Comment