He left to go home and I stayed at work to finish up my duties for the day. Everything was honky-dorey for about 20 minutes or so... and then I started to feel a little sick to my stomach. Friends, that escalated quickly to a mad dash to the bathroom, where I continued to throw up everything that I'd eaten. Everything I had eaten.
So I'm standing over the toilet, leaning as best as I can, puking up supper, and it dawns on me... nausea and vomiting can be one of the first signs that you're going into labor.
I have never been so happy to throw up.
Between heaves of vomit coming out and gasps of air coming in I start thinking about what we need to do. First, there's nobody I can call to come finish up the thing that I still had to do at work. I'd just have to wing it. I figured that the contractions would come easy and slow at first, giving me plenty of time to do what I needed to do before going home to tell The Hater and pack the hospital bag. That didn't bother me - it'd be fine.
After about fifteen minutes of visiting with Ralph on the big white telephone I called The Hater to see how his stomach was taking supper. He, of course, was fine. I told him I'd retched up my toenails but otherwise felt fine - I was going to continue with my day. I did not tell him that I was waiting for contractions to start because I figured there was no need in getting him excited before it was time to get excited.
And I waited. And waited. And checked my clock, and waited some more.
Imagine my disappointment when I realized it was just a regular vomiting escapade, not one linked to the initiation of labor. I was utterly gagged - both figuratively and literally.
On the way home I called The Hater to report the lack of contractions that I was sure I was going to have. He displayed the appropriate amount of empathy that this cranky 9-month pregnant sow needed to hear.
Then, against my better judgement, I ate some ice cream. It stayed down. There were no contractions to report during the night.
What a downer.