I didn’t know what I was in for.

In fact, I didn’t that the “in for” was really happening. On June 4, 2007, I was 38 weeks and 4 days along in my pregnancy. I went to my ob appointment and my doc checked me out and said there was “nothing going on.” So I made an appointment for the following week and went home.

If you don’t mind looking at a little naked belly, this is what I looked like back then:

When I got home from my doctor’s appointment, I went out for a walk and about 10 minutes into it, it started to pour. I stood underneath a tree and waited to see if the rain would let up. It didn’t and it wasn’t going to. So I set off for home, annoyed that not only was my body not showing any signs of labor, but I couldn’t even get in a decent walk.

At home, I cut up a cantaloupe and shoved the peel down the garbage disposal. Bad idea. It clogged the pipes and rendered the sink unusable. When Owen came home and I told him what had happened, he was understandably angry and I was understandably a sobbing mess.

I made spaghetti with tomato sauce for dinner. We ate in the living room and, afterward, Owen tried to fix the pipes and I sat out the couch, feeling like crap. I figured it was a combination of those pesky Braxton-Hicks contractions and my jerkiness for clogging the pipes. It wasn’t an easy fix and I knew Owen would be working on the pipes for a long time and, meanwhile, the dishes would pile up on the counter and that was certain to stress me out. And probably make me cry. Dirty dishes sitting on a counter can do that to a pregnant gal.

And so I talked to Bridget and told her my story. I got to the part about being crampy and she said, “You’re in labor.” And I said, “No, its just Braxton-Hicks. It’s not labor. The doctor said there’s nothing going on.” Then the cramps started becoming more, well, painful and less like what I’d been used to for the past few months. Owen and I had some chocolate ice cream that I could barely eat, because of the crampy ickiness and the feeling stupid for clogging the sink.

Around 10, I had to go to bed. I couldn’t sleep because the contractions had become much more pronounced, although I was still denying that they were for real. At 11, I broke out my note pad and started timing them. The second one I wrote down was 20 minutes later. Then 15. Then I knew. There was something going on. My baby was on his way.