Nothing like a good gun metaphor when talking about childbirth. But it is kind of violent, isn’t it?
Today I am 37 weeks pregnant. I was sitting at the kitchen table this morning after everyone else had left, eating toast and watching a little video on my phone about baby’s development, thinking about how not ready I feel for all of this. I got up and went to the bathroom before work, and there were three big globs of snot on the paper, one of which was tinged with blood. I guess this is the mucous plug, right?
I called my wife, who DID NOT ANSWER. I called right back and yelled at her, of course. That phone needs to be stapled to her head at this point, and anyone she is on with is going to have to wait through the periodic updates of my bodily functions. We are having a baby, here, people.
I decided to quickly pack for the hospital, even though I know from the one-pager that my OB gave me just two short days ago that it could be a couple of weeks still, and that passing the mucous plug “does not bear much significance.” It feels significant to me, nonetheless.
So there we are. A bathrobe, a camera, some nipple cream, one of the three outfits for baby that I have washed so far, and a boppy, all lined up and ready to go. I already have a mental list of the things I have forgotten, which I suppose is why you pack in advance. For example, I wonder what I will be wearing home from the hospital? My work clothes, or perhaps the bathrobe? And what good are breast pads with no nursing bra to put them in? These kinds of things.
Even so, it feels good to have that bag sitting there, just in case.