My first daughter was due in October. I am pregnant again, and again, October is the due date.
For some reason, when I'm pregnant, my in-laws decide that we MUST have a family reunion on Labor Day weekend. The notion that we might not be able to attend such a thing is always met with, "but WHY NOT?!"
So, in two weeks, we pack up the minivan and head up to Boston for a week. Last time, just as the BBQ was about to get underway, I started having super regular contractions that were not relieved by drinking two litres of water or lying on my left side. After they went on for two hours, and I was getting increasingly uncomfortable, we went to the hospital. I told them that we were visiting from a stereotypically southern state, and I guess that, combined with "why are you traveling at 35 weeks?" resulted in them assuming I was simple minded. They spoke slowly and told me that if I was actually in labor, they weren't going to stop it. Now, I worked in Boston for a year, and I'm well aware that all things medical were invented there. (Heck, the ORs rename half of the equipment.) So, in their minds they were doing me a favor by allowing my baby to be born where I could receive such superior medical care.
Luckily, like a lot of women, the minute my butt hit the bed in L&D, I started feeling better. The contractions that had been startlingly uncomfortable in admissions down in the ER just...went away. We went back to the bbq, where I continued to lounge on my left side, then we flew home, and the Peanut arrived promptly on her due date in my impoverished, uncultured, southern state.
So, let's hope that this time, I won't be visiting any hospitals. Can you sense my excitement that this time we're driving?! On my best day, I hate long car rides. This time, I'll be eleventy months pregnant. Oh, I-95 in Connecticut. I have not missed you. But, Emma's Pizza in Cambridge? We have a date.