Contractions at Home Depot

We are on our way to Home Depot or Lowes or whatever for the umpteenth time since moving to the new house, back in July. I swear that the Cheers song, "Where everybody knows your name..." should start playing when we walk in, since this is our weekend spot.

As we arrive I am thinking kettlecorn and Sprite. Don't ask me why. The baby wants what it wants.

We are here to look for dividers for the baby's closet and in my world, if I need something, I pick what I need, and leave the store with no regrets on my choice.

Not my husband. He will pick and choose and over think every detail of every drawer and will end up at the hardwood floor section, when we don't need to be looking at hardwood flooring.

That's his prerogative, though, and I try to be understanding, especially when he says that his being this picky is why he ended up with awesome me.

I usually play along by giving opinions, when inside I don't really see a difference nor care.

Today, however, as we look at rows and rows of shelves, the contractions began, once more.

I have been having them for a week or so now. They feel nothing like the menstrual cramps I had been warned of. They feel like awfully bad indigestion that squeezes the belly and radiates to the whole entire back, making me bend over and expell profanities.

My husband is asking which section to choose from and I answer not so sweetly with a "I don't give a shit."

He understands then that he needs to place me on a couch by the furniture session, abort his mission to look at hardwood floors (have I mentioned we have no business, nor can we afford, being at the hardwood floor section?) and go pay for the damn dividers.

While I wait, a native American looking man approches with his dog inside his shopping kart and parks it next to me. Native american person goes looking at Christmas trees, which happen to be next to the patio furniture section.

His giant and tan poodle stares at me, wagging his tail.

My normal self would usually stand up and go fluff the dog's fur.

Today I just sit there, screwing up my face. I let out a moan and the dog cocks it's head.

I whisper, "It's just me and you, doggie, in a corner of a Home Depot Christmas section, in this cruel, cruel world."

My husband arrives and I still look murderous. He asks with his tail between his legs, "What can I get for you? I will do anything."

I gather all my strength and whisper, contorting in pain, as if I am on my death bed, "kettlecorn and Sprite."

For the love of storks

Believe it or not, even with all my discomfort and sleepless nights, sometimes I forget that I am pregnant.

I will be sitting here, minding my own business, and my belly will stretch side to side. I catch myself thinking in split seconds like this, "Wow, my stomach is really active. What the hell did I eat?"

Then I realize, "Oh, shit, there is a person living in there! I forgot!"

(Read the post on brain farts to understand why such thoughts cross my mind.)

Prior to getting pregnant I wished for storks (and some days I still do). I couldn't fathom the idea of my belly growing that far with a human being in it and natural birth always seemed so unnatural to me.

I didn't want to go through pregnancy. I just wanted the baby.

My husband explained it to me one day, as he set on his son's bed after he left, that nature wants me to carry a baby so I can get to know him, little by little.

My stepson had just left when that summer was over and he would be gone to his mom's, which is in another state, for a few months.

This always hits my husband really hard. He usually gets quiet for a few hours, if not a few days.

Whenever he arrives from dropping stepson off at the airport, he puts his son's belongings away in a slow and morose manner. I learned very fast to avoid this disheartening ritual by cleaning up the area before husband could get back. He had asked me one time, "Can you put his shoes in a closet?" and initially I thought he was being lazy, but soon realized he just didn't want to deal with the fact that the house felt quiet and empty without his hyper kid.

Even after straightening up the place as to appear as if no child had ever visited, such as this day, my husband would still sit on his son's bed, and look out the window, lost in thought.

Feeling helpless, not knowing what to say, I thought with my buttons, "I have to give this man a child; pregnancy, stork or not," and that's where the idea of a baby came about.

I said out loud, uncomfortable with his looking out the window and feeling so low, that I was ready for a baby, but not ready for pregnancy. I asked him, joking, attempting to light up the mood, why weren't there storks, when he explained to me why pregnancy was so necessary in a parent's experience.

I wondered, how can I get to know a fetus, though? It's just a fetus, it's not a baby yet. It doesn't have a personality, or thoughts, or wishes, or free will.

Or does it?

While going through painful contractions the other night, I learned from my baby books that contractions start with the baby. His brain sends a signal that he is almost all cooked and is about ready to make his entrance into the world.

I had no idea that babies actually have any saying on when they can come out.

Also, my baby has taught me some interesting aspects of his personality, already in the womb.

He doesn't like showers, or when I shower. The moment he hears the water, he kicks and stretches and throws a fetus tantrum that usually stops after the shower is over.

Baby also doesn't like when I scratch my itchy belly. He will punch the source of the itch. My husband has this theory that my nails in contact with the skin sound loud to the little one.

The baby reacts to the voice of my stepson and to my husband's touch. I picture in my head him leaning his ear closer to the edge of the belly and trying to hear what is going on, then acting nuts wanting to come out and play.

By eight o'clock every night, he wakes up and starts his mambo, which lasts until, oh, about three in the morning, when I finally sleep, just to wake up an hour later with acid reflux.

I guess husband is right (but don't tell him I said so) : storks would totally kill the mood. I barely know this person and I love him so unconditionally much already, thanks to his kicks and random jabs. Now I can honestly say I wouldn't have it any other way and that there is, in fact, a science to this madness.