Twas the Night Before Last

I struggle to fall asleep amidst the lemon-scented crumbs, but sleep evades me and is not likely. The bed is wrong; no matter how much adjusting I do, it is not a suitable substitute for my own bed. My mind wanders back to a few hours earlier when the crumbs were made by my three-year-old, propped up in the bed next to me, his tiny fingers holding a lemon cupcake, crumbs scattering on the bed. When he is finished with the cupcake (a brief craving that I had that resulted in my baking far too many cupcakes for one small family to consume), he grabs a toy from the nightstand, a tiny elephant in a boat and proceeds to run the wheels of the elephant’s vehicle up and down my arm and occasionally over my sheet-covered leg. The elephant pauses once in a while at my face to inquire “What are you doing, Mama?” I smile and patiently answer the elephant’s question, marveling that I became “Mama” to countless pirates, Ninja Turtles and other assorted “guys” when I became Mama to this smiling, happy little person. The elephant seems satisfied with my answer because he proceeds to head back down my arm and after a moment of hesitation, gently heads for my stomach. “Remember: not on Mama’s tummy,” I remind him. He nods his agreement. “Let me see,” he asks again and I acquiesce, lifting my nightgown so that he can see the fetal monitors placed against my stomach. “Monitors,” he says as I smooth the awkward hospital gown back over my swollen stomach. “Just to make sure that Mommy is okay,” I tell him gently, knowing that he is already uncomfortable in the hospital room. It is not a kid-friendly place. There are no oversize characters peering down from the walls or cheery, bright colors. Still, the moment he stepped through the doors, the room brightened considerably. “Are we going home?” he asks once more as the elephant resumes his boat rampage up and down my arms. “You and Daddy are going home,” I tell him. “Mommy needs to stay here for the night.” Not the Monday evening I had envisioned surely.

When I awoke on Monday morning, it was like so many other Mondays, manic, as Jude and I both tried to squeeze every bit of sleep out of the morning. I carted him off to daycare, where he was immediately surrounded by his friends, in awe of his obnoxious (but cute), singing Spongebob Squarepants. I barely got a “Have a good day” from him as I walked out, but he was occupied and happy so I scooted off to work. I turned on my computer first thing, as I do every morning, then headed to the kitchen for ice (I absolutely cannot tolerate beverages that are less than ice cold). As I walked along the outer edge of the gym floor, I slipped in a wet spot and landed directly on my stomach. I fell hard and couldn’t get up. The worker cleaning the floors (who, incidentally speaks no English so we have to communicate via the rudimentary Spanish I have retained from college) literally lifted me off of the floor and helped me get to the kitchen. I couldn’t really walk on my ankle, but I was more concerned with the fact that I couldn’t feel any baby movement. I have grown accustomed to the kicks and rolls that signify the ever-growing presence of the person curled up inside of me. I called the doctor’s office and was informed that I needed to come in right away. So, barely 45 minutes after arriving at work, I headed out to the doctor’s office. One ultrasound later where I could see his movements and his little face and hear his heartbeat and I was crying with relief. The doctor strapped me up to a fetal monitor to chart his heartbeat and after just a few minutes, she informed me that she was sending me to the hospital for further monitoring “just to be safe.” So I headed off to the hospital for the four-hour monitoring. This turned into all all-night ordeal. Why?

The Mystery of the Phantom Contractions:

The nurse who kept checking on me asked me if I was having contractions. I told her I was not. I was as comfortable as I could be, lying in a hospital bed strapped to a monitor. She then showed me spikes on the monitor that indicated that I was in fact having contractions. So, much as the Scooby-Doo-like heading suggests, I investigated these mysterious contractions. Well, actually I stared at the monitor to see when they were happening. They were so few and far between (only 4 to 7 in an hour) that I turned my attention back to the television. Obviously if they weren’t strong enough to turn me away from a compelling episode of “Montel Williams” (okay, I really missed my DVD player and didn’t have any other distractions, since I didn’t know I would be spending all day and night at the hospital), then they obviously weren’t going to be strong enough to push a person out of my body. Still, having contractions meant that I had to spend the night for even more monitoring.

Long story short (I know – too late): I was released in the morning and everything seems to be okay with me and, more importantly, with little Sullivan and his sweet little face (I know – I saw the ultrasound. It is a sweet face.) If there were only some way I could avoid walking at all for the next five weeks, then maybe I would be less nervous that I will actually make it to the end of October.

Maybe.