Pregnancy update: mysterious fluids and gerbil behavior.

Welcome readers, all 2 of you, to my blog. You may be wondering why I decided to start a blog (or more realistically, why anyone would read this blog). Three reasons.
First, there is only so much one can type on a facebook status update without annoying all (insert obscenely high number, or in my case, 58) of one's facebook friends. Second, I used to journal, but honestly, I got tired of hearing myself whine. Because if your only audience is yourself, that's what you end up doing, at least if you're me. But if I am forced to write to the massive number of individuals who will put this blog on their bookmark bar, I may start to talk about something slightly more interesting than my current angst-provoking issues. Last, I have a feeling that once this baby arrives, I will want to share his amusing antics. And perhaps drone on and on about how many times he has pooped in one day, the quality of the poo, and other exciting topics that new parents always seem so enthralled with. And because my husband and I have a giant extended family, I know I have an instant audience for such ehthralling posts, so long as we post baby pics.

But since our baby has not exited his little indoor pool yet, I will instead talk about my own bodily functions. Last week, 33 weeks into the pregnancy, I experienced something I haven't experience since age, uhh, 3 (OK, really more like 12, who am I kidding). I peed in my pants. Having spent too much time on anxiety-inducing pregnancy websites which, notice, are NOT on my list of fave sites, I immediately assumed the worst. I assumed that this must have been what they call in serious medical circles a "ruptured bag of waters". It could not possibly be related to the five pound human learning to riverdance atop my bladder. Don't ask me where he found bagpipes in there. That's a whole other blog entry.

So, upon notifying the doctor of aforementioned pant-wetting, we were told to rush to the hospital, and pack a bag in case this was the start of pre-term labor. So I did what any responsible pregnant woman would do. I picked up my knitting bag and stuffed it full of my toothbrush, yoga pants, and a creepy Ann Rice novel. Because apparently I mistook the word "triage" for "rustic retreat center in the mountains". I didn't even think to stop by that mysterious room that harbors bins and bins of newly acquired onesies to pack something for the BABY. I would like to think that this behavior was a result of my maternal instinct telling me that baby wasn't really coming out yet. While that may be partly true, in reality, I think it hadn't quite dawned on me that the movement in my belly was due to a real human being, and not the result of a severe case of indigestion.

To make a long story slightly less long- all is fine with the baby. I went home after a few hours on the baby monitor, where it finally sunk in that there really WAS a human in there, whose little heart continues to beat like a tiny drum regardless of which kinky Ann Rice scene I am reading. He is going to cook a bit longer (I have always gagged inwardly when others compared gestation to roasting a turkey, and now here I am doing it) and this is great news, because we want his lungs to develop so we can squeeze him continuously when he arrives, without the interference of a NICU cage.

To call this event a reality check is an understatement. It was more like a reality bomb. I have been on modified rest since peeing in my pants, just to make sure all is well, and to save our floor from undue urine stains. But my lack of movement has been more than made up for by the sudden flurry of activity from my wonderful husband. Nothing like taking your wife to the hospital with her knitting needles to make a man realize he is about to become a daddy.

I had two wonderful gerbils when I was growing up (I promise, this really does relate somehow). Their names were Kara and Willy, and, in the words of Milton from Office Space (when he lost his red stapler, and his desk with a and view of the squirrels outside), they were married. The happy gerbil couple soon did what gerbils do (although rabbits always get the credit): they bred like gerbils and produced roughly 500 pink, hairless, eraser-like babies per week. In prepaparation for their first batch of erasers, they scurried around the cage anxiously, flinging bits of shavings and seed around haphhazardly.

This is where the point of this story comes in. My mother said months ago that my husband and I remind her of Kara and Willy, scurrying around anxiously in our house (and at 800 square feet, our house IS somewhat cage-like) in preparation for our son's arrival. Although I could acknowledge that my recent onset of pregnancy-induced body-hair growth did lend me some gerbil-like qualities, I didn't really understand the comparison at that point. Now I do. Sure enough, my husband has been scurrying around the baby room every night this week in a flurry of gerbil-like antics. Instead of pine shavings, there are cardboard boxes and clothing tags being flung about haphhazardly. It's a wonderful and exciting time, and I can't wait to bring our pink little son home to his nest.