It was early morning of February 17, and, at 38 weeks 3 days, I was one day more pregnant than I had ever been. I had fully expected to have a newborn in my arms at this point; I had assumed that the last of my progesterone shots would have worn off nearly a week earlier and was shocked when I was still pregnant into the Valentine’s Day weekend. I was uncomfortable and very ready to be done, though I hadn’t quite hit the mental brick wall of *needing* to be done with pregnancy. I just really wanted to be able to sit with my knees together again and to be able to sleep without some limb falling asleep.
It all started at 7:20 p.m. when my water broke (conveniently just as I was finishing up going to the bathroom!). I shouted down the basement stairs at Rob, who was in his office, that my water just broke. He came running up, saying, “Really?!?” I looked up the clinic number and called the answering service to notify them that we were heading in. Read more