40 weeks!!

So this is a picture of a baby at 40 weeks gestation, or more simply, what Junebug and I look like right now (except my boobs may not be *quite* that perky).   A few things come to mind as I scan this picture.  Never mind the fact that until now, I had no idea that I even have something called a "pelvic colon," but apparently there exists such a thing.  And take a look at the poor bladder.   No wonder I'm up 4 times during the night to pee. What's even more disappointing is the "amount" of pee that comes out- I sit down and wait for the deluge, only to have a few droplets echo in the toilet.  So very disappointing but now I see why. 

Perhaps the most disturbing thing to me is the massive size of the head, especially when compared to the ittybitty-ness of the cervix and vaginal canal.  And while we're on the topic of the word "canal," I'd like to say how misleading I find it for doctors and medical personnel to refer to this incredibly narrow passageway as a "canal."  I mean, come on people.  When I hear the word canal, I think of a large body of water capable of allowing barges and ships to pass through unaffected.  THAT is a canal.  What's pictured above is about the diameter of a McDonald's plastic straw.   I understand that psychologically, it's probably not a good idea to envision this part of my body as plastic and unmoving....but for all intents and purposes, it's a TUBE, not a "canal."  A tube that will remarkably allow a 13+ centimeter head to come through.  *And this would be exactly why I'm getting an epidural, thank you.*

So here I sit, 2 days shy of the due date (which I know is nothing more than an educated "guess date") nevertheless, I have the overwhelming feeling that my turkey timer is done and this kid is well cooked.  Right now, this little Bug is doing nothing more than taking up space, head-butting my cervix and bladder, and adding on weight that will inevitably make it harder for me to push out.  I wait for a sign- any sign- that labor is about to start.  Was that a cramp?  Could that be a contraction?  Was that gush of fluid leftover pee or amniotic fluid?  I swear, I never thought I would get excited over feeling period cramps.  I have never run to the bathroom to check my underwear with such enthusiasm for remnants of a mucus plug.  (I'm now beginning to think that I have a phantom one).  And this is the only time in my life I can honestly say I would love to feel warm fluid run down my legs because it would mean my water has broken and could care less if it happens in public where people assume I've peed myself.  (Although maybe I would get off easy and my belly would be a clue that I haven't simply lost all bladder control).   The whole time I'm waiting to feel pain, I'm very much aware that I have absolutely *no* clue what I'm in for.  This is supposedly the worst pain I'll ever experience in my life.  But it's also something my body knows how to do and is equipped to do, so I'm allowing myself to focus on that instead.  As my doctor has said, it's pain with a purpose.  This is not the same scenario as lying in bed for a week with the flu, feeling close to death and almost wishing it upon yourself, only to recover and then say "hey, I had the flu last week."  

I get to hold a baby- our baby- at the end of all of this.  And that's the best reason ever to feel pain. :-)

Fun ways to pass the time at 38 weeks....*tick-tock*

I've obviously slacked off on the blogging lately.  However, since I'm not making much progress according to my doctor (only 25% effaced and not dilating), am no longer working and therefore essentially sitting around twiddling my thumbs in an effort to pass the time, I intend to post as much as I can until this kid decides to make their appearance.  I've also come up with a few other fun things I intend to do in the meantime until "it's time!"

1. Count the dimples of cellulite on my thighs and ass.  This will probably take a good 2 hours, depending on the angle.  I believe that my right thigh and ass cheek have a few more than my left...

2. Scoot myself around our house on my yoga ball.  It's quite comfy actually.  I'm currently trying to figure out how I might be able to roll myself around the neighborhood with Poco when we go for walks.  

3. Rock climbing and/or spelunking.  Because what's more impressive than a big pregnant woman impersonating Spiderman, right? I'm just not sure there are many good spots in Richmond...

4. Figuring out how many different ways to eat a double stuff oreo.  First and foremost, it has to be double stuff- I don't mess with the weird hybrid oreos (mint, cappuccino, peanut butter).  Just give me the plain old fashioned oreo and glass of skim milk.  As for how many ways to eat it, I lost track after the 9th one...guess that means I'll have to start over later this afternoon. *darn*

5. Counting the diapers in the mega box of Pampers I bought. Just to make sure there are, in fact, 216 of them in there.  After that, there are the mega packs of 384 wipes to go through as well.

6. Squeezing and fondling my nipples (and yes, I make sure to practice some self restraint in public).  I've found this to be both fascinating and somewhat painful.  If nothing else, some interesting stuff will come oozing out (*yay- my body works!*).  But supposedly, alternating 15 minutes on each side once an hour releases the hormone oxytocin, which induces uterine contractions.  And I figure, if it doesn't have the desired effect, it will probably at least get my husband interested....which can lead to another fun way to pass the time...

7.  Shaving my legs and "downstairs" region.  Due to the sheer size of my belly, I end up looking like a blind person reading Braille, as I take my razor and feel around to make sure I'm not leaving any patches.  Likewise, I also can't see if I've nicked anything or am bleeding anywhere either, so I guess it's just as well...if things get really slow around here, I'll work on creating a fun design for my OB to find at my next internal.

8. Going to the grocery store and getting revenge....by asking overly curious, stupid or borderline rude shoppers if they would like to strap on a couple sacks of potatoes to wear throughout the duration of their shopping trip and see how they like it. If this doesn't get the message across,  perhaps I'll take a broom stick and mimic baby's kicks by poking them repeatedly in the stomach and back...

9. Writing/editing a series of poems dedicated to my cervix and vajayjay to further encourage their cooperation in project "baby eviction."

10. Going for a pedicure.  I figure if my feet are going to be up in stirrups just any day now, they might as well look cute (since nothing else down there will and all sense of modesty will be lost by then).   Plus, have you seen a 9 1/2 month pregnant woman try to paint her own toenails?  *pathetic*

11.  SLEEP.  Hit the snooze button eleven times before getting out of bed, doze off on the couch after lunch while watching something uninteresting on TV, go to bed at a decent hour and set the alarm for 2 a.m. so that when it goes off, I can remind myself that I don't have a baby to breastfeed *yet.*  Roll over and go back to sleep.  Repeat. :-)

Now off to work on #4 or #11....or perhaps both....

You Know You're 9 Months Pregnant When...

I think it's high time that I write another post. *oops*  Where has the time gone?

I'm officially counting down the days.  That's right.  I'm 11 days from full term, which means I am basically a month from my due date.  *Sweet grandmother's spatula.*  Where has the time gone?  I mean, there were plenty of instances where it certainly felt that time could not go any slower.  First it was the dog-tired days of the first trimester and the waves of incessant nausea when my only countdown was to the golden gates of the second trimester.  Then there was the countdown to the halfway mark of 20 weeks and the "big" ultrasound where most couples will find out if they need to start buying pink or blue.  The next big milestone is viability at 24 weeks, and right around the corner from that is the countdown to the third trimester with it's aches, pains, sleepless nights and flashbacks of fatigue and nausea from the first trimester.  But at that point, you don't care so much.  (Probably because you're too damn tired to care).  You know you're nearing the end of the pregnancy and can manage a few more weeks of discomfort because your eyes are on the prize ahead.  So in honor of officially reaching the 9 month mark (well, in my case, being 3 days short of the 9 month mark), I am dedicating this post to all the joys that go hand in hand with being this pregnant.

And for those of you who are confused about the actual length of pregnancy and think that 9 months means "it's time!!!" I hate to break it to you- really I do, but in fact, we women are lucky enough to have another month tacked on for a grand total of 10 months.  40 weeks = 10 months, but if you are counting lunar months or something weird like that, then it does end up being 9 "lunar" months.  I don't do math and it makes my brain hurt, so moving forward...

You know you are 9 months pregnant when...

1. You drop something on the floor and just stare at it, hoping it will pick up itself because if you DO bend down to get it, one of three things will happen: 

a) You will fart....and this is not the girly fart of days gone by- this is the loud, clear-out-the-room with one whiff type.  If you still have a sense of modesty, you may hesitate to bend down if other people are present.  Otherwise, you've probably reached a point where you could truly give a rat's ass whether anyone hears you or smells you anymore.

b) You will end up like a turtle who's been turned over on it's back- legs and arms flailing about as you try to right yourself and get up again.

c) The baby's head might actually pop out, as you are already feeling some intense pressure from where it has already dropped in your pelvis and before you know it, you will be featured on one of those dramatic baby delivery shows:  "It all started when I bent down to pick up a blueberry..."

2.  You have all but taken your pillow and blanket into the bathroom with you at night, convinced that you can get a better night's sleep sitting propped up on the toilet and at least this way, you do not have to grunt your way in and out of bed an average of 4 times before the sun even comes up.

3.  You're two primary reactions to outside stimuli (TV shows, commercials, strangers with no filters,  husbands who mean well but are unaware of raging hormones) are either to cry or utter the words "bite me."  Both may make you feel better momentarily, but the urge will return shortly- I promise.

4.  You haven't seen your hooha in several weeks (at best) but you are now more aware of its presence than ever before, as it feels as though it's hanging somewhere down between your knees.  And don't even bother picking up a razor to keep things looking tidy since there's no way to really "see" what you're doing down there.  The vajay has taken enough abuse over the last several months without looking as if Edward Scissorhands went to town on it.

5.  You silently pray you don't pee your pants when you feel a sneeze coming on.  You actually throw in a couple of "Hail Mary's" if you happen to be out in public.

6.  You can use your bump as a nice table or "eating shelf" for convenient snacks like crackers, M&M's,  grapes, etc.  If only your tongue was long enough, you could just lap up your treats like a dog and not even have to use your arms.

7.  People no longer make eye contact with you when you're out shopping but continue to stare a hole straight into your navel as if they're expecting the baby to fall out of you at any given moment.  (Refer to # 3)

8.  You're hips feel like they're being held together by a swizzle stick causing you to waddle instead of walk, you can identify the individual ingredients in the food you consumed four hours ago because some of them continue to come back up when you burp, your tail bone feels as if it's been ruthlessly dragged up and down a flight of concrete steps, you have Braxton Hicks contractions that squeeze your belly so tightly that you momentarily lose your breath,  your toes resemble vienna sausages and if you're lucky enough, your hands and feet will swell up to boot....

yet you get excited upon feeling any type of pain or pressure that *might* be the beginning of labor.  You think "YES! I'm feeling pain!" and will proceed to drop whatever it is that you were doing, put on your shoes and walk (read: waddle) a mile and half around your neighborhood or bounce up and down on an exercise ball to see if you can bring about even more pain...because it is, in fact, time to get this show on the road.   

Put the gun down and back away (Getting trigger happy at Babies R Us)

There is nothing that will evoke fear out of a grown man faster than when his bride-to-be or wife-with-child says, "honey, we need to register."  *Dun-dun-DUNNN*  Upon remember the painfully long 2 hours Jake and I spent at Bed Bath and Beyond to complete our wedding registry, I vowed that I would never do that to him- or myself- ever again.  So when it came time to register for all things baby, I took it upon myself to get the job done.  After all, he wasn't ever going to have an opinion on what color nursing pillow I register for.  And what does he care what kind of nipple we use?  In fact, when I found myself standing n front of the "wall o' nipples" at our local Babies R Us, I started to wonder what do I really care about what kind of nipple goes on our bottles? Nipples are nipples, right?

Wrong.  So wrong.  I have never heard a person talk about these little rubber sucking devices with such fervency as the sales associate did that day.  Holy mother of God.  Apparently it does matter, and there is in fact, something called nipple confusion.  So what did I do?  I got trigger happy.  I scanned anything and everything that looked like it might be "Top Rated" or "The Safest" or "BPA free" or "Less Colic."  I am convinced now more than ever that in America, we are paralyzed by options.  Go down the freakin' toothpaste aisle at your local Target and you'll see what I mean.  And if you think that's bad, go look at nipples at Babies R Us.  It's truly eye opening.

I realized that I had neither the time, energy or comfortable shoes to spend an hour in each aisle over analyzing baby products.  Luckily, I had done some online research of certain baby products and gear ahead of time, so I was able to move rather quickly through the process.  The bigger items like the travel system, pack-n-play and swing were checked off quickly as I had already determined which styles I wanted.  Surprisingly, the smaller items like bibs, washcloths and hooded towels proved to be more time consuming.  All the while, I'm thinking, they're going to get bodily fluids on them, why should I care so much whether they start off being mod or retro inspired?  However, registering for gender neutral items is not as easy as it might have once been, and I was constantly checking myself to make sure my choices didn't provide any clues as to baby's gender.  By the time I made it to toys, I was randomly scanning bugs that played musical tunes, farm animals with mirrors and shapes affixed to their bodies and anything else that looked worthy of drool and baby teeth marks.  It didn't matter.  Check and check.  

I have no idea what shape my registry is in right now and have only gone online since then just to make sure there were no duplicates of anything.  I walked out of Babies R Us that day and had no inclination whatsoever to look back.  I spent a relatively short amount of time with the scan gun, but this is not to say that I didn't put some thought into a lot of the selections.  It's just that at some point insanity encroaches, you find yourself wanting a chocolate chip bagel from the Panera next door and your feet are screaming obscenities at you.  When all is said and done, you leave with a whopping 157 things on your registry and think how the hell did that happen? 

I didn't look closely enough, but I'm guessing that at least 38 of those 157 items are nipples...

"Baby Got Back" (pain)

For the record, I've got more than enough "back" these days...I'm just not "little in the middle" anymore.

I sincerely believe my body is staging a coupe once this baby is in the outside world.  It is going to take back all that once rightfully belonged to it.  My pelvis will no longer be floating, and my hips will decide that they want to fit into my size 4-6 jeans again.  My legs will stop resembling Redwood tree stumps, complete with bulging veins and cellulite that could make an orange peel look smooth. I will have a waist again- perhaps with some extra skin and flab to tone up, but Pilates will take care of that.  I will no longer have the telltale "pregnant face" that leaves people wondering, "is that swelling or does she just like to treat herself to Dairy Queen every night?" (And the answer to the latter is no....I only have it about once a week).  And I will have my back back.  

There are some days when it simply does not matter what position I sit or lie in, how much prenatal yoga I have done or how much I plead with Junebug to please move to a different position, my back just hurts.  I was able to alleviate some of the lower back pain by sadly packing away my heels *sniff-sniff* for the Summer.  I now wear flats, but mostly flip flops (regardless if the weather is 40 degrees).  The pain from my lower back, however, began to radiate up to the middle of my back- almost between the shoulder blades.  I know my ribs have been spreading, which I'm sure doesn't help, but I was also told by my doctor that the pain I was feeling was due to my posture and overcompensating as my belly grows and shifts my weight from the back to the front.  That's good to know, considering he has a uterus and has done this before.  I love my doctor, really I do.  But I also love that doctors will tell you why something hurts, and then stop there, as if that in and of itself is enough to make the patient feel better.  It's not like I was going to hop up from the examining table, all cheers, and immediately be able to correct my posture.  Believe me, I've tried "sucking it in."  It takes me from looking 8 months pregnant to about 7 1/2.  At this stage in the pregnancy, nothing short of crawling out of the exam room on all fours would have helped the pain (and for a split second, I considered it, but more because I thought it would just be funny to see peoples' looks).  I guess that was just his kind way of saying, "I'm sorry your in pain, but your sh**t out of luck."  I found this has been a recurring theme when you're pregnant...

Driving is the absolute worst.  Just sitting in the car is bad enough as a passenger, but lately I'm the one driving because I find I'm still pretty sensitive to motion sickness, even this late in the game.  I figure I'd rather have my back kill me, than have my back kill me and be nauseous.  If Jake is with me, no more than 15 minutes will go by before I'm begging him to please rub my back as I hunch over the steering wheel (as much as I can "hunch" these days).   Some days I open my car door and I'm just not sure I have it in me to hoist myself up and out onto the pavement...so instead, I stare out at the open air and sort of "will" myself to levitate out of the car.  I used to laugh and poke fun at those commercials with the old people riding around on their motorized "Little Rascals" or whatever the hell those things are called.   That has never sounded more appealing to me.  I have all but considered taking a few items of baby gear off of my registry and replacing it with one of those....I wonder if people would notice?  

I'm not the kind of person who likes to ask for help but getting to this stage of pregnancy has required me to do so at times, and I'm having to learn to be okay with it.  Preggo sympathy is not an entirely bad thing, after all.  Generally, people have offered to help me without me having to ask: loading and taking my groceries to the car, letting me go in front of them in line at a store or fast food restaurant (maybe I look that hungry?) and overall just seeming to pay special attention.  It's really not all that bad.  I just hate feeling like an invalid and have to come to terms with my own limitations on a daily basis.  I cannot clean the entire house in one afternoon like I used to or move slightly heavier objects and I can expect to be out of breath if I try to.   I can't shop for baby clothes and other fun items with the same gusto and enthusiasm that I used to and there needs to be a comfy bench or chair nearby.  After 2 Easter services, a big family lunch and too much time in the car on Sunday, I was in tears at the end of the day as Jake worked out the knots and kinks in my back.  My lesson: I can still function with achy feet, throbbing varicose veins, heck- even small bouts of nausea and heartburn, but my back will not negotiate.  So I may be shuffling around for the next 6 weeks, but I'm trying to look on the bright side.  At least I'm not shuffling around and wearing a muumuu.  

The "B" Word...

Jake and I returned home yesterday from a relaxing weekend trip to Virginia beach.  We left Friday morning, stopped for lunch at our favorite restaurant in Williamsburg and made it to our hotel in time to still enjoy some good daylight on the beach.  The weather hovered in the mid-70's for the entire time we were there- absolutely beautiful.  We knew we would splurge on a couple of nice meals, but packed some snacks, wine, chocolates and other indulgences "just in case."  There was no agenda except total relaxation.  This was our last trip as the two of us- to celebrate just that: the two of us will very soon be the three of us.  It will never be *just* the two of us again, so why not take full advantage.  If the term "babymoon" has popped into your head, bravo!  That's what most people these days would call it.  Jake, however, thinks the term sounds pretentious and almost refused to go if that's what I insisted on calling it.  Whatever.  You want a long weekend getaway to celebrate the impending birth of our child and the closing chapter of our life as a two-some?  You got it.  Just don't call it what it really is.  Therefore, the only "B" word you will hear me refer to in this post is the beach. *wink wink*

And not only is the beach fun, but I also found it to be very educational.  There were a few things I took away from it, besides unwanted sand in my bra and a little sunburn.  Here are a couple of little nuggets:

1.  Sand hurts.

Bad.  Especially when it gets into crevices that, as an 8 month pregnant person, I can no longer see or reach.  Despite the 70 degree weather and sun, the wind gusts were pretty strong down on the beach.  Which meant sand in my mouth, sand in my shirt and bra (my boobs are going through enough as it is, thank you very much), sand in other fun and surprising places.  Some of this might have been avoided had I actually packed beach towels.  (See #2).

2.  Beach towels and sunscreen are *kinda* important.

Why this wasn't on my radar, I have no idea, other than to blame my stupid preggo brain.  I'm the only person I know who packs for the beach and leaves behind sunscreen and something on which to actually sit at the beach.  *Picture me and Jake toting our small, inadequate bath towels from the hotel down to the dunes.*  Obviously, I'm not one for keeping up with appearances when it comes to "necessities."  Sure, I packed 2 cute maternity sundresses, 5 tops, 3 pairs of pants. 4 pairs of shoes (we were there for 2 days total) and 3 different hair styling products, but no beach towel.  I still hold my head up high.

3.   Once you sit down on the sand, you should plan to stay there for a while.

This was only complicated by the missing beach towel problem from #2.  Obviously, if towels weren't on my packing radar, then any kind of foldable beach chair certainly wasn't either.  (We're gluttons for punishment, what can I say?)  So I plopped down on the sand and then proceeded to flop around like a fish out of water (or more like the kid brother Randy from the movie A Christmas Story) until I found a somewhat comfortable position.  Jake continued to read and write in his journal, clearly deep in thought and completely tuned out to my grunts and groans.  I kept my mind off of my aching hips and pelvic region by feeding the local seagulls, much to his annoyance.  Had Jake not been there to ultimately help me to my feet, I would probably still be lying there on the beach, doing what I consider to be a great impersonation of a beached whale.

4.  It's good to slow down (and not just because of my lower back).

It's finally begun to sink in that the days of just being the two of us are numbered, which brings about some mixed feelings on my part.  Although I'm anxiously counting down the days until we meet our Junebug, I sometimes want to be able to freeze moments of our lives together right now, so that we can always remember them for what they are right now: lazy mornings in bed, going to dinner at the drop of a hat, a leisurely weekend trip to the beach before packing up the stroller and diaper bag...

I'm more aware than ever of how quickly the time is moving now, and although I'm at the point where I'm ready to not be pregnant anymore, I don't want to wish away this time either.  We will never get it back and we will never be expecting our first again either.  Truly a time to slow down and cherish all that's good...

A "Relaxing" Day at the Spa?

Remember those cartoons you watched when you were a kid (okay, maybe you still watch them now) when someone decides to cook a chicken for dinner?  Someone puts a very resistant (and very alive) chicken in a roasting pan (these are cartoons, after all), bastes it,  shoves it in the oven and cranks up the heat.  And as kids, we sat there laughing at this bird as he starts to turn shades of pink and red and sweat, all the while devising his evacuation route, which he inevitably finds, because we all know that cartoon characters don't really die. Might be a bit too morbid a message to send to young kids...I might very well have become a vegetarian at the age of 6 if I had actually watched that chicken die a slow death in a kitchen oven, then get carved open and served with mashed potatoes at the family dinner table.  Well, after a particularly dramatic episode at the spa yesterday, I can now empathize with that poor cartoon chicken.  

First and foremost, let me set the records straight about a couple of things pregnant women don't handle too well: noxious fumes, stupid comments about size/weight made by people who don't have filters, and heat.  I will be talking about the latter of those three.  Due to the residual effects of the panic disorder I had, I did not tolerate heat- or becoming terribly overheated- before I even became pregnant.  It was a trigger for me that instantly made me feel nervous and claustrophobic (which is why I had my wedding reception outside in the middle of July *smart*).   

I arrived at the spa with a good friend yesterday for a little post-birthday pampering and was ready to have my tired, achy body-turned-baby machine worked on.   I stripped down and put on a plush, velvety robe and wandered into the "relaxation room" to sip on some fresh cucumber water as I waited for my pregnancy massage.  After the massage therapist came to get me and take me back, I was instructed to take off my robe and bra and climb under the blankets on the massage table as she went to heat up the body cream she would be using.  *Bliss.*  (I don't normally indulge in packages like these- in fact, this is the first one I had ever done).   She started my massage by having me lie on one side while she worked the kinks out of that side of my back, shoulders and butt and then had me switch to the other side to do the same.  The cream she was using was unscented (thank God) but was a little warm, although it felt very relaxing.  For the last part, she had me lie on my back, semi-reclined, while she put a warm neck wrap around the base of my neck.  She started rubbing down my feet, thighs and legs with various oils and creams and we continued to carry on a jovial conversation.  She then took two heated towels (are you noticing a recurring theme yet with the words "warm" and "heated?") out of what appeared to be a tiny microwave and wrapped them around my feet.  At first, I felt like I just needed to have a sip of my ice water, so I asked to sit up and have some.  Perfect.  I laid back again, but continued to feel *off* and then a minute later, without any warning, I bolted upright (which was amazing enough considering I was almost flat on my back) and immediately knew I was going to pass out.  I didn't even think this was possible since I had been lying down.  I started hyperventilating and tried desperately to remain calm and control my breathing as the black spots started to appear and the room began to spin.  I remember uttering something about getting a fan, and luckily, there happened to be one in the room.  The massage therapist immediately turned it on full blast, went to get an ice pack and placed it directly on the back of my neck.  I was cognizant enough to remember that I should put my head between my knees, but but apparently not with it enough to remember that I had an 8 month pregnant belly in my way.  *No good.*  So there I sat, as hunched over as humanly possible in all my round, naked glory (at this point, the covers had fallen off of me and I didn't even care), wheezing and shaking and trying to find my "happy place," to keep from keeling over.  

I found out later that the bed was actually heated as well.  Lovely.  This person was supposed to be certified to do pregnancy massages.  And she was a nice girl, really, at a very well established, four-star spa.  But at what point in her training, I'm curious to know, did they tell her: "Place the pregnant woman on a heated bed, proceed to cover her with a warm cream from head to toe, then have her lie almost flat on her back (a big no-no when you're this far along) and then make sure she has a warm neck wrap.....oh yeah, and while you're at it, take 2 bath towels, stick them in a microwave until they're almost on fire, and wrap her feet in them."  

*I already felt like I'd been fattened up for the kill with my nice round belly.*  To her credit, I was given a discount because of the "drama," but as I wandered from my pregnancy massage down the hall for my facial, I was greeted by yet another warm bed and steam blowing in my face.  In not so many words, I told the nice lady to turn the bed off and point her steam elsewhere unless they were looking for a lawsuit.  Well, unless she wanted to know the joy of picking a naked pregnant woman off the floor.  The rest of the day, thankfully, was uneventful although I'm not sure how "relaxing" it actually was...