"I've got a fever! And the only cure is: more cowbell!"

- christopher walken

So obviously if I'm thinking about Christopher Walken singing & dancing, there hasn't been a life-changing event around here. Of course, I could've had a life changing event involving CW - but I didn't.

I'd just like to say at this point that there's no such thing as false labour.

Really. There isn't. The label "false labour" is erroneously applied to labour which "doesn't progress." This almost always means that the contractions do not settle into a regular pattern, or do not become closer together, or do not become stronger. Labour progresses in a number of ways (including the six I mentioned last time), and to label an irregular series of contractions as "false labour" is needlessly discouraging for all involved.

All of which is to lead into the part where I tell you that I thought I was in real, serious, "this is it!" labour late last night. And I wasn't. I had a series of non-progressive contractions, I stirred up the household, I ached all night long, but they seem to have subsided now. I took a Gravol at about 9:30 p.m. (this is s.o.p. for early labour) and slept almost the whole night. I had more than one contraction in the night, but I was determined to wait until they actually woke me up. They didn't. I'm not really having them now. Ergo, I don't seem to be in active labour.

The Boy stayed with me this morning to get in a little extra sleep & see if a pattern would emerge, but he's off to the university now to write an exam. There doesn't seem to be any need for him to run around in a panic & "boil string," so it's best if we just get on with our lives. As my mother's friend said when her water broke during a nursing exam, "I'm almost done! I'm not writing this again!"

The good part is that all of the advances I have already made don't get subtracted from my score if I don't experience regular contractions. I'm still dilated, I'm still effaced. One correction: I misread my chart and reported that on Monday I was +2 engaged. I was actually -2. A rather significant mistake; I'm glad my math teachers taught me the importance of paying attention to that little sign.

I'm just glad we didn't rush into the city. I'm supposed to be all super-cool about this, and a heedless dash to Loftwyr & Gila for non-progressive contractions would've blown my image somewhat.

Just remember: there's no such thing as false labour.

After we dropped off the Boy at the bus terminal, Mom & I went to the mall. I kind of needed to get out of the house; there's nothing to do at this point other than wait, and I might as well get some walking in to hasten the experience. I didn't count on the fact that once I got to the mall, my determination & buoyancy would run away post haste and I'd be shambling around like a depressed pregnant zombie. I'm finding that this stage of labour is a lot like having a terrible session of menses: I'm tired, I'm kinda sore, I'm feeling unattractive & useless, and I get the occasional sharp clench from my uterus. At least when you're on your period, nobody's coming up to you in public to ask you when you're going to be finished bleeding.

Weird. Pregnancy is so completely public and menstruation is so completely taboo. It's almost comical how far apart these two things are.

Anyway, it was totally bizarre to be in the mall I haunted as a teen and to feel so...pregnant. (Ungainly, lumbering, huge, pained.) So unattractive. (Sitting there in black sweatpants, white sneakers & my husband's sweater that I'm wearing for the second day running, how could I feel otherwise?) So unfashionable. (I saw a store dedicated to "punks, goths etc." and realized that if there's a place in the mall where I can buy my striped shirts, my subculture must've died when I wasn't looking.)

Guh.

Booty Call: Day 271 - Fingernails extend beyond fingertips. Sprout endures.