- Take French classes.

I am very, very good with languages.  Despite the fact that my writing here is not always the most beautiful thing, I understand language.  I adore French, and being bi-lingual here in Canada would be a boon; after French, I’d like to achieve conversational fluency in some of the other Romance languages (Spanish and Italian in particular, and probably Portugese) since they’ll be really simple to pick up.  I’d like to be able to speak Polish too.  Then I’d finally understand what my mom and her family are saying when they speak to one another when they don’t WANT us to know!

- Finish my first novel.

This will be SUCH a huge deal for me.  I have loved writing fiction for as long as I can remember, yet I’ve not finished anything longer than short story length.  I feel confident that I can achieve this goal in 2010, if not before.  Then I’ll get an actual printed copy via Createspace.com and it will be amazing.

- Get pregnant with #2!

Really I should say “have more sex” but, well, Maia’s gonna have a sibling eventually, so we might as well get this show on the road.

Have you thought about what 2010 will hold for you?

Thankfully, Chris and I are alternating who wakes up with her every morning, and while it seems that she’s happier for longer with me (so he gets to sleep in for two hours, and I’m lucky if I get forty-five minutes), I’m grateful for it.

I handed in numerous applications up at the local mall recently, and had two interviews on Wednesday.  I’m a little bummed out that I haven’t heard anything back from either of them yet, as they both went really well, both ended with me and the manager shaking hands with her saying “I’m so glad we spoke, and I’ll be in touch soon,”, and one interview even finished with the manager saying “You’re going to be a great addition to our team”.  I’ll call and follow up if I don’t hear from them by the end of the business day.

As excited as I am by the thought of returning to the workforce and earning some money, which will relieve so much marriage-related guilt, all I’m doing is replacing it with mommy guilt.  Maia’s still cruising along holding on to furniture, standing on her own for ten or fifteen seconds at a time, and she keeps trying to take steps on her own but falling forward.  I don’t want to miss the first time she doesn’t fall, but I know there’s a chance I will.  I know that I might be forfeiting “Mama” becoming her official first word by leaving her with Daddy while I’m at work.    I try not to let it bother me too much — after all, it’s not as if she’ll forget how to walk, or never call me Mama — but still, there’s a little bit of sadness and jealousy in my heart.

Still, I know I’ll be coming home to her and Chris, and I know they’ll be bonding more with one another.  That’s a good thing.  And in all reality, I need to get out of the house and feel like a more productive member of society.

Plus, by getting a job, I’m earning hours to make me eligible for maternity leave, which I plan on taking IN SEVERAL YEARS FROM NOW, MOM.

(Side note: you have no idea how many people suggested I was pregnant when Maia went on strike.  You also have no idea how impossible that is.)

Several years.  Because right now?  I’m too busy taking care of this little pigtail monster.

———–

Around 7:30 last night, an earth-shattering craving struck me. Not for pickles, which rest conveniently in my fridge, nor saltines, which I wisely keep near my desk; not even for the grapes and oranges in my fruit bin, nor the Pop-Tarts snuggled into a dark corner of a cabinet.

Not for those, but for Cheetos. Nasty, neon-orange, CRUNCHY SALTY NOMNOMNOM Cheetos.

I begged my husband to get me some, but he was playing Diablo2, which means he was completely oblivious to my pleas, as there were monsters that needed to be struck down. Clearly I have been too pleasant of a pregnant woman, because I feel like he should have feared the wrath of God smiting him when his wife falls at his feet, rests her head on his knee, and cries about needing Cheetos (no, I am not too proud to beg). I will say that he dug $1.52 out of his pocket, gave it to me, and said, “Then go buy some, hun.”

This, unfortunately, meant I needed to get dressed, which is a trial when all the sudden none of your pants will button at the waist yet you’re hardly showing except for the constant thrill of OH MY GOD MY UTERUS IS GROWING that makes you stand in front of the mirror at least three times a day to see if it’s poking out any further (note: last week, when I pulled my belly chub up, there was a slight curve; now, when I don’t pull it up, there is a pronounced one; this is a source of constant joy, as are my massive, beautiful, and SO FKING TENDER IT HURTS boobies).

Anyhow, I got dressed and went to the store. Cheetos were on sale — for $2.49, goddammit — and so I agonized over which bag of 88 cent potato chips I would buy (sour cream and onion means my husband may steal from me, salt and vinegar means I may end up with a numb tongue, bbq means no numb tongue and no stealing but also no satisfaction). I settled for s&v, which were opened as soon as I arrived home and plopped down on the couch to watch So You Think You Can Dance, which is one of my favourite shows right now (I can’t help it). And then the chihuahua army came; between yelling at them to get away and listening to my husband roast monsters, I had to turn the TV up louder than I like. And then I commenced eating.

Now, at this point, let me just mention that other than a few delicious bags of Gardetto’s that got in my way while I was in the US, and a drunken handful or two of Cheetos at a friend’s birthday party, I have (happily) abstained from the “potato chip aisle” category of junk food for approximately eight months. But this was a craving that refused to be ignored (unlike yesterday’s craving for banana bread which conveniently disappeared when the sky opened up and decided to piss on our town).

At some point between dances, I looked down at the bag and realized I had consumed half of its contents. It also struck me that baby is not yet satisfied with the amount my body had taken in, and so I kept eating. Then I looked down again and thought, you know, not only is this unhealthy and disgusting and utterly AMERICAN of me to be shovelling potato chips down my gullet while watching competition-based reality TV, but maybe I’ll want some tomorrow with an egg salad sandwich and a pickle for lunch, so I should stop.

Thank God I didn’t eat any more. Thank. God. Because half an hour later I felt so sick it was like someone had taken my intestines, tied them in knots, and let their chihuahuas fight over them. I couldn’t sit up. Watching TV became an exercise in patience, waiting for the commercials so I could race to the washroom. All I have to say is this:

MOMMY’S BELLY DOES NOT LIKE POTATO CHIPS and I will not be fooled into this manipulation again. If baby wants vinegar, I’ll eat a pickle. If baby wants salt, I’ll eat saltines. If baby wants something crispy and salty, I’ll eat homemade hash browns, or maybe I’ll get really saucy and just have a granola bar instead (how do you like THAT?) Or maybe I’ll buy sunflower seeds.

What I will NOT do, though, is consume any more potato chips, nor will I fall for the “I want Cheetos” craving. Because I am an unhappy mommy that just wants to go snuggle with daddy, but is too bloated and keeps burping up a disturbing vinegary potato taste to possibly be a good sleeping companion.

When I heard this, I was disgusted.  I mean really, 19 kids?  Who the hell needs 19 kids?  Why would you do that to yourself?  I typed out a tweet about it: “Duggars, you’re disgusting” and then erased it, feeling like if I couldn’t put an actual quantifiable reason on WHY they shouldn’t have 19 kids, I should probably just keep my yapper shut for awhile.

Over time, watching the tweets go by, I saw a lot of things like this (and note, I don’t follow either of these people, I just searched Twitter for “Duggar uterus” and “Duggar vagina“, I’m using them as EXAMPLES, not pointing fingers, but I didn’t want to use tweets from people I follow and interact with daily):
“that Duggar lady is pregnant with her 19th child! brb consoling my vagina and telling it ill never treat it like a park slide.”
“Im gonna pull that Duggar womans uterus out myself if she doesnt stop having freakin children“

In other words, there were pages and pages and pages of tweets displaying a lot of anger, mockery, and crudeness around Michelle Duggar’s part in the pregnancy.  In a way, as a woman, I totally understand this; I shudder and cringe at the thought of being pregnant nineteen times, giving birth nineteen times, going through these first months of life nineteen times…

But contrast those pages of results with the search terms putting the onus on Mr. Duggar, or even acknowledging his role in his wife’s pregnancy: “Duggar penis” returns ZERO results, “Duggar sperm” (yes, I seriously searched that) returns four, and “Duggar pants” (as in “keep it in your pants”, the first thing that came to mind when thinking of ways to “diss” a man for having sex) returns eight relevant ones.

TWELVE tweets in total that acknowledge or blame Jim Bob Duggar.  I’m sure there are more out there, but I just went with the first searches that came to mind for both a man and a woman who are procreating excessively.

As the saying goes, it takes two to tango.  Michelle Duggar didn’t put baby 19 in there herself; her husband played an active role as well.

So why is she taking all the blame?

What’re your thoughts?

In the spirit of celebration, I’m hosting a “Babies of 2009″ Carnival on this blog on July 1st.  All I want you to do is write a post about a frustrating or joyful experience in your life as a mother to a newborn, or as an expectant mother.  My hope is that I can help a few new moms connect with one another.   Although the carnival is focused on parents whose children were born (or will be born) in 2009, I will also have a category for babies born before 2009 — you are more than welcome to participate as well!

Please sign up with your post at the Babies of 2009 Carnival page on BlogCarnival.com.  If you are having problems with that, just come here on July 1st and leave a link to your post in the comments (or send me an email, or a tweet…)

Click here for Part Two.

This won’t be a chronological retelling of what happened after the birth, but I just wanted to type out a few other random things that I don’t want to forget:

I was apparently very polite during my labour.  I remember apologizing to Chris for freaking him out (“I’m sorry, I know this is scary honey”), saying “no thank you” when offered a popsicle, saying “yes please” when asked if I would like some ice chips, etc.  But I did lose my cool once: during all of my contractions, Chris was saying breathe, breathe, remember to breathe, and finally after forty minutes of pushing I screamed at him, “SHUT THE FUCK UP ALREADY!” I remember everyone laughing, and the shocked look on his face — and then I apologized for yelling at him.

My legs were trembling — from exhaustion, anxiety, and god knows what else, after Maia was born.  At some point as she laid on my chest, I felt a jabbing pain in my left thigh, and yelped.  The midwife had jabbed me with a needle to inject some sort of hormone (I could look it up, but I’m lazy — pitocin?) to help ensure contractions would bring out the placenta quickly, but she hadn’t given me warning that she was about to do it right then.  We’d discussed beforehand that she’d do it, I just hadn’t expected it at that moment.  I was kind of caught up in my baby.

I have no memory of delivering the placenta at all, but I do remember the umbilical cord stretching down my stomach and into my body.  It was hot and pulsing, and unexpectedly grayish and translucent looking.  Chris did not want to cut it, so once it stopped pulsing, the midwife did.  I don’t think any of us even paid attention to the placenta coming out or what happened to it afterwards, so when I found it in a tupperware in the freezer the next day, well… I was pretty surprised, to say the least.  Our initial plan had been to give it to our primary midwife, Georgia, who couldn’t be at the delivery, and she could take it to the hospital and burn it — but our plan has been revamped, and my mom has it in her freezer in Connecticut.  When we go down to visit this summer, we are going to bury it and plant a tree over it.  It will be awesome!

We all chuckled about her being born on Friday the 13th, but at one point the midwives all gasped, and one said: “She’s a very lucky girl indeed” and held up the umbilical cord.  It was knotted.  One good yank and my baby would have been in distress.  The thought still haunts me.

I dealt with the discomfort of stretch & sweeps just fine, as well as, obviously, labour — but when, after the birth and some skin-to-skin time, Sarah took me into the bedroom to check out my tearing and see if she could stitch it, I had a hard time.  She and the other midwife poked at my coochie, running their fingers along my tears to check their depth and length, which really fucking stung.  I said, “Sarah, that’s REALLY uncomfortable,” and it was — like what I imagine being jabbed with searing, red-hot needles in your most sensitive, battered area would feel like.

What hurt more was when I got to the hospital to be stitched, and the doctor sprayed saline over the tears to clean them.  I honestly thought I was going to jump through the ceiling and need to be sedated.

I was separated from Maia because I was at the hospital from 2:30am (she was born at 1:07) until 5am.  It felt like an eternity.  A midwife stayed at home with Chris and the baby until 4, but he was alone with her for the next 90 minutes.  That must have been so crazy for him.  As for me, I started to get pretty grouchy with my doctor and her student (the student was doing the stitching) because I really wanted to get home to my family.

That’s all I can think of, for now.

Maybe when we can sleep 6 hours in a row, I’ll think about all that.  Until then…. ugh!

So I can push.  Finally.  I’ve never been so happy to know that I was about to put myself through something so unfamiliar.  I’d spent the last 45 minutes trying desperately not to push, although anytime that I fucked up and did, it was an awesome feeling, like this is what I am supposed to be doing.  It lessened the pain.

As I felt the next contraction coming, I grabbed for Chris’ hand and Sarah started coaching me: “Push with your butt, like you’re trying to take a giant poo.”  I leaned my head far back — I was so afraid I’d stop breathing if I put my head down — and screamed as I pushed.  You know all those early concerns I had about the amount of noise I’d be making in labour, and whether it would inconvenience or annoy the people in my building?  They were irrelevant. And apparently I didn’t make enough noise to disturb anyone, as we never heard anything about it all (in fact the landlady, who lives next door, said “wow, the hospital got Tatiana out fast, huh?” when Chris saw her Friday afternoon).  Pushing felt … good.  I mean, it was intense, and I felt like I was really working, but it was nice to know I was making progress.

At some point earlier in the night, Chris crushed up some ice into chips for me.  As he and Sarah rushed around the apartment setting things up for the birth — and called a second midwife to come help as well — I sucked down those ice chips.  I can’t imagine what it would have been like to try and force myself to drink.  Chris kept asking if I wanted a popsicle but really, I didn’t want to hold anything either.

I lost track of time as the contractions continued.  I’d swear they were one on top of the other, but I really don’t remember them being excessively painful — just exhausting, and uncomfortable.  The second midwife, Susie, showed up.  I remember her and Chris and Sarah all talking, but I was either pushing or had my eyes closed and was focusing my strength and energy inwardly.  Then I remember someone asking if I minded if Susie called her student to come join us — as if I gave a damn at that point!  All I wanted was to have a baby.

My timeline is a bit confused as I try to look back on it all, over a week later.  I remember labouring in the living room and screaming at Chris, “WHERE THE FUCK IS YOUR MOTHER?!” since it was after midnight, and we’d called her right after the midwife, a few minutes after 11.  I think both of the midwives and the student were there, telling me what a phenomenal job I was doing, when one of them said, “I can see hair!” My response: “She has hair?!” I expected a bald, Polish-looking baby. “Lots of it!” was the answer.

At some point after my mother-in-law MJ arrived (and she arrived about 30 minutes before the baby), Sarah said I should go labour on the toilet because the gravity would help the baby to come faster.  I did NOT want to move, but I knew we’d make good progress with my body in that position and so, after the next contraction, she helped me into the washroom.

I sat down on the toilet.  She told me to tuck my head down into my chest — I was “pushing with my face” too much — and focus all my pushing into my rump.  One contraction like this and I could already feel a difference; there was something more happening here than when I was sitting up.  It must have shown on my face when I looked up at her after the contraction, because she smiled and said, “Don’t worry, I won’t let you have a waterbaby on the toilet.”  I was so hot, rubbing ice chips over my face and chest; Sarah grabbed some wash cloths, wet them, and laid one on my back and one on my chest to try and help me cool down.  We laboured there for awhile, with me closing my eyes and rocking back and forth between contractions.  There was a long period between one set of contractions where I was able, blessedly, to relax a bit more and keep myself calm.  Sarah says that happens sometimes during labour and it’s basically like the mother’s body is helping the mother’s mind.  I was wearing a nursing bra when we went into the washroom, but by the time we left I had torn it off and thrown it into the bath tub, leaving me completely naked.

When we walked out into the living room, I could feel the baby’s head down low.  I hobbled along bow-legged, with MJ and Chris sitting on one couch, the other midwife & her student on the dog’s loveseat, with all sorts of little stations set up around the apartment (weighing the baby, oxygen if she needed, an injection of some sort for me to help deliver the placenta, etc).  I remember asking Chris to straighten up my pillows behind my back after every contraction, because I wanted to be sitting up more than lying back.  I wish I could remember looking at him, but I honestly don’t; maybe we didn’t make eye contact.  Maybe I was too distracted and he was too scared.  Someone asked if I wanted a mirror so I could watch the baby being born, but I definitely didn’t want to see it at that time (now, I kind of wish I had, but I think it’s more because I love her so damned much that I regret missing out on those few extra seconds that I could have been looking at her).

I remember women’s voices: she’s down so low, she’s ready to come out, you’re doing so amazing, we can see her hair, every time you push she comes a little closer, push long and hard this time, just one more time… I remember Chris: you’re doing amazing baby, you’re amazing…

And then this strange stretching feeling, this burning sort of achiness.  It was so incredibly fucking uncomfortable, but it was NOWHERE NEAR the pain that I thought I would be experiencing.  “Stop pushing,” Sarah said.  “Just relax.  We need you to relax and let your body stretch for her, and then you’re going to push her out when I tell you to.”

Again, my body gave me a break between the contractions, but this time I couldn’t enjoy it: “GET HER OUT GET HER OUT GET HER OUT!” I screamed.  All I could imagine was a squirmy little baby face sticking out.  I felt a weight down there.  I wanted my baby to be out already, because I was tired of being in labour, I was tired of pushing, I was tired of not holding her.  But I didn’t push, because my midwife wasn’t telling me to.

I felt a contraction coming.  “Incoming,” I whispered, then started to push.  I made up my mind that I was NOT going to stop until the baby came out, and I don’t even remember hearing anyone talking to me; I just remember pushing, putting every ounce of my energy and heart into bringing my baby into this world.  Then this rushing sensation down low, the weight in my pelvis disappearing, and a chorus of cheering as a hot, slimy little body was laid on my chest.

The first time I saw my daughter’s face, I was in shock.  I expected that I’d have an ‘ugly’ little baby, and I had steeled myself for the possibility that she would be slimy and bloody and gross, but I hadn’t prepared myself for looking at someone so damned beautiful.  I wasn’t ready to be instantly enamoured of her.  And apparently I immediately said, “Oh.  My.  God.” but I don’t remember it, I remember looking at her for what felt like forever, not knowing what to say, feeling like I should say something amazing and important, and then settling on a rather unsatisfying “Oh.  My.  God.” Chris was talking too, and I can’t remember what he said, but I remember him and his mom both laughing when I spoke.  Maia wasn’t screaming at me.  She seemed so calm, so accepting of the fact that here she was, here I was, and here we were as a family together now.

Who put the hat and the blanket on her, and when? I don’t remember.  I know Chris moved off the couch and came to kneel at our side with the camera.  I know he touched her hand and she gripped her fingers around him.  And I know that I was — and am — so damned proud of us and our baby.

Click here for Part Three.

Shortly after this, I returned to the couch to continue labouring on my side.  However, it’s possible the movement stirred something up; I puked after my next two contractions.  Chris asked me to move off my side, at which point I think I lost my shit and told him there was no way I was moving because it was too comfortable here, but then I realized I really didn’t want to throw up again and so moved to sit on the floor with my back to the couch.

Hours went by.  The contractions grew a bit stronger, but they were still short, and we watched television together while continuing to track things.  Chris brought out the air mattress, put our clean shower curtain down on it, our least favourite bedsheet over that, and I returned to sitting on the couch.

Around 10:45pm, I hit a point where I had to start really focusing on my breathing during the contractions, and had started some vocalization (and had debated with Chris whether “mmm” “ohhh” “ommmm” or “shhhhhhhhiiiiiiiittttttt” would be the best sound to make, a debate that lacks resolution); at 11pm, as the DVR switched to Comedy Central to record The Daily Show, I finally accepted this was real labour and said, “I think you should call your mother.”

“Nah,” he answered, “let’s let her sleep a little bit more.”  My contractions were 4-5 minutes apart, but still only 30-45 seconds long, and it’d been an hour like this, but we were waiting for the contractions to hit 1 minute long before we called the midwife.

11:02, it feels like a bubble pops inside of me, and a GUSH of water (I’m talking like Niagara Falls) comes surging out.  Onto the couch.  It didn’t hurt, but it was strange, and I screamed: “MY WATER JUST BROKE!”

He stared at me.  “What?”

“CALL THE MIDWIFE, MY FUCKING WATER JUST BROKE!”

“You can feel your water break?” (Clearly, at this point we were both in shock)

“Like a fucking waterfall, call the midwife.”

“Okay, was it clear? Get up, go take care of it.”

So I stand up, amniotic fluid dribbling down my leg, my shorts totally soaked, knowing MAIA IS COMING OUT TONIGHT. I look at the couch and don’t see anything dark or bloody looking. “Take care of it? I think it’s clear. What am I supposed to do?”  And off I go to the washroom, tottering back and forth, to sit on the toilet.  I hear him on the phone and yell, “It’s clear!”

I get back to the living room and lay down on the air mattress just in time for a contraction to seize me.  Now, maybe this is my memory moreso than reality, but while it hurt and was uncomfortable, it was NOT agonizing.  It was intense though, and I had an overwhelming desire to push.  Chris grabbed my hot, sweaty hand and talked me through it.

We had stacked up something like six pillows behind me, to keep me propped up.  I knew I didn’t want to lie down, and in all actuality I had every intention of labouring in any position OTHER than one that put my weight on my pelvis like sitting, but once I got settled there I Was.  Not.  Moving.

And then began the most terrifying part of the labour.  He and I, alone, the baby coming, the contractions growing more intense, me wanting to push so badly, his mother on the way, the midwife on the way, my mother not on her way.  It felt like this part lasted forever; we were both so scared.  With the start of every contraction I would grab his hand — I didn’t actually want to, because someone touching my skin felt horrible, but I knew he was terrified and just trying to comfort me.

Stephen Colbert was on the television, so it had been over half an hour since we called the midwife and my water broke, when I told Chris to turn off the fucking TV (I’m so nice) and he said, “Well, I’ll change the channel.”  NO YOU WILL NOT, TURN IT OFF. “But I want the TV on.” AND I FUCKING DON’T! “What about turning on some music?” NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Poor dude.

We were sitting there in silence.  Between every contraction I would close my eyes and slip into some zen semi-meditative state, then during them we’d scream at each other: “DON’TPUSH DON’TPUSH DON’TPUSH! *pantpantpant* DON’TPUSH!”  Finally, at one point he said, “Oh my God, I need to breathe, I’m going to faint.”

Finally, at 11:40 or so, we paged the midwife again.  Except — get this — the paging service put us on hold. I honestly thought Chris was going to lose his shit as he waited and I sat there screaming “DON’TPUSH!” through another contraction.  When we were finally answered and put through our page, Sarah called back within two minutes; she was right outside of the building.  Chris decided he was going to help her carry her things up, although I was just about in tears at the thought of being left alone, but he didn’t want me waiting any longer than necessary for her to get up here.

So I went through two contractions on my own.

The door flew open and in rushed Chris and Sarah.  She said something — some sort of joke about how fast this had gone so far — then threw on a pair of gloves.  I have to tell you that nothing in my entire life had ever sounded as unappealing as having someone check my cervix at this point in time, but then she said the magic words:

“You’re fully dilated.  Push when you feel like pushing!”

Click here for Part Two.

Click here for Part Three.

Contractions at:

3:40

3:50

4:07

4:13 ?

4:31

4:41

4:51

4:57 ?

5:05

5:13

5:18 ?

5:24

5:38

5:54

6:02

6:13 ?

6:21

6:28 ?

6:38

6:46

6:55

7:02

7:10

7:15*

7:21*

7:28*

7:36

7:42*

Question marks next to the ones that did NOT make me want to puke.  Stars next to ones that were very short but very intense, maybe 5-10 seconds of stabbing pain with a very short lead-up that faded immediately when the stabbing did.

The worst is when they catch me when I’m standing up… holy fuck… standing up already puts so much weight down in my pelvis that it’s an intense ache, but a contraction while standing?  Ughhh.

Poor Chris.

Update 6:24pm – We called our midwife, talked with her a bit about the duration/intensity, she of course can’t say whether we’re looking at a full night of labour or whether this is a ‘false session’ that’s going on 3 hours.  Chris is going to the grocery store to pick up some popsicles & Gravol for me.  Grandmas have been called and my mom will be heading out tomorrow morning — the thought of her driving in snow through Buffalo in the middle of the night just doesn’t leave anyone feeling comfortable and safe.    Standing up if I’ve been sitting down for a few minutes is almost guaranteed to bring on a contraction (uh oh, not looking forward to getting off this computer).  I tried to relax in the tub but our tub is too fucking small for even me to get comfortable in, so now I’m labouring on the couch.  It feels most comfortable when I’m stretched out and I might try lying on my side with a pillow between my knees for awhile.

Update 7:50pm – I keep burping.  It tastes like pot pie and it’s fucking disgusting.  Lying on my side is by far the most ‘comfortable’ position so far to experience these contractions in.  I’ve also taken 1000mg of acetominophen so that’s probably helping.    I’m getting a lot of very short contractions although they’re quite intense.  The feeling as they fade away is so fucking good… like a unicorn smiling at me while a bunny rabbit blows me kisses and Jesus washes my feet.  The popsicles Chris bought are really good but I know I’m not drinking enough — going to have to focus on doing that.  Going on four hours now of these contractions.  I wish I had gotten more sleep last night.  Haha…