"The Uterus: Nature's Punching Bag"
by Heather Clenney
Sometimes when a pregnant lady is really tired and is too stubborn to sit down and order her husband around, or when she doesn't drink enough water, she might start feeling the intense effects of a natural process called Braxton-Hicks contractions. These are also known as "practice contractions", even though my mom says that if the contractions that are just for practice make a woman feel like her baby's about to come flying out of her bellybutton, that should make me think twice about the consequences of making "adult decisions", whatever that means.
The End.
So it was apparently my time on Saturday evening to experience but a taste of what I've cheerfully signed up for in childbearing. I started experiencing fairly sharp, spaced out contractions around 9:45 p.m., and throughout the course of the night, they grew more regular insistent. I figured out around the midnight mark that if Ava's little baby body slinked into just the wrong place before a contraction happened, she got to spend the duration of the contraction right in that spot, whether it was jammed butt-first into my ribcage or some other unmentionable place. Poor little squirrel. Can't be fun.
And poor Daddy, too -- as he lay there in the throes of a cold, grasping for sleep, I rolled and moaned and generally made my discomfort known as we ticked off the minutes between contractions. The pugs booger-barked and howled from their crates downstairs. Miss Daphne shuffled from cabinet to floor, her fatness making every move apparent to oversensitive ears. Even Honey Boo Boo Dog was a terrible disturbance where she slept at the foot of our bed as she kicked the phooey out of him while she galloped after whatever Great Danes pursue in their doggie dreams.
Around 4 a.m., I renounced any right that we had to restful sleep and informed Jason that it was right time we drive to the hospital and have me checked for any, ahem, impending appearances. I was fortunate that my sister and brother-in-law (Aunt Angela and Uncle Ben -- not the rice guy, by the way) were staying right down the hallway in the Blue Room since their power had been out at their Gourdneck home since the Christmas Day Ice Blowout of 2012 had robbed them of electricity and all its cozy benefits. We roused them, and they sprung into action to help us get ready to go. I took a warm shower -- which felt like the best warm shower in the history of all warm showers -- and stuffed a few granola bars into my bag, then we split for the lights of Little Rock.
I just had to listen to Paul Simon's Graceland album on the way. It's become an adult pacifier of sorts for me, and by the time we reached the front doors of Baptist Hospital, I was fairly mellow. Maybe even a little punch-drunk from the adrenaline and the South African beats. And probably the lack of sleep.
A cheerful nurse took me, Aunt Angela and Daddy into the examination room and strapped me into all manner of non-invasive devices to measure Ava's spunky heartbeat and the progress of my contractions. We were there for four or five hours, I'm not sure now. Probably because I was falling asleep between the nurse's questions and uterine events. I have a knack for dozing off in semi-public situations. I usually have crazy dreams. There on the table, I dreamed that there were two fuzzy blankets beneath my cot, and no one would hand me one. Last ultrasound I had, I dreamed that Korean singing sensation Psy was in my face trying to convince me that I needed to eat more cabbage. Pish! Tosh! I get plenty of Vitamin Whatever, dude.
A few monitor beeps and one physical examination later, it was officially concluded that I was the victim of very regular Braxton-Hicks contractions, and that my cervix was thick enough to die another day (sorry.... getting off of a James Bond kick). I was sent home to nurse my sore innards and recover from the rest we lacked.
All I can say is, if that's "practice", then come game time, you'd better be on like a hot mike in a back alley comedy club, Little Miss Uterus!!!
