I’m Not Wonder Woman

Click to visit the Siren Stories website and read more work by J.J. Barnes and check out her latest novels.

Click to visit the Siren Stories website and read more work by J.J. Barnes and check out her latest novels.

I am not the best at relaxing.  Indeed, when I’m told I need to relax I get tense.  When I’m told I need to relax or I’ll end up back in hospital, I get incredibly tense.

I’ve been worrying recently about going into premature labour, as I am sure many pregnant women at around the 30 weeks stage do, and with so many people telling me how big my bump is and I’ll never go full term it has been weighing on my mind a lot.  Yesterday it all got a bit too real.

I had been feeling rough all day, very achey and tired, and my mum took me out for lunch after we dropped Miss Rose at nursery for the afternoon.  On the way home I suddenly got sharp, stabbing, strong pain in the lower part of my bump.  It HURT.

My mum got me home and onto the sofa.  Moving hurt.  Breathing hurt.  The pain kept coming, then easing a little, then coming on again.  My mum took me to the doctors where I was checked, then checked by a gynecologist, who promptly called for an ambulance.

It’s very scary being loaded into an ambulance, having horrible contractions, being strapped to a gas and air, and then whizzed down the motorway to the hospital.  I wanted my mum with me, who had gone to pick up my notes.  I wanted The Boy with me, who was at work and who we were trying to reach.  I was fretting about Miss Rose being in nursery, even though we’d already arranged for The Boy’s mum who she loves very much to collect her.  But mostly I was scared that either something was really wrong with Baby B or me, or that something was definitely not wrong and I was basically just a big old drama queen who was wasting NHS time and resources.

Turns out I was neither wasting time nor was anything seriously wrong.  Something was happening for sure, and something was contracting and the pain was real, but it began to slow down in regularity and the pain between contractions was lessening too, and they became sure that Baby B wasn’t on her way.  Baby B’s heart rate was healthy and my blood, urine and vitals were all normal.  I was kept in, strapped to monitors and regularly checked for what felt like ages, but in reality was just a few hours.  My mum arrived and The Boy arrived.  Miss Rose and Z were taken back to Grandma’s for a splendid picnic dinner and sleepover, none the wiser about any potential drama that could have been about to unfold.

I was released.

I was also put on strict rest orders and told if I don’t listen I could end up back in.

The Boy and my mother got very strict.  I can’t be carrying baskets of laundry, I can’t be bending up and down doing jobs, and I can’t be moving furniture around.  I’m not allowed to go walking around Lego Land, which was planned for next week, and I’m banned from walking long distances.  Basically I am sitting here, in my new Wonder Woman t-shirt, with a cat on my bump being anything but Wonder Woman.  I am trying to relax.

I am looking at all the jobs that need doing.  I took all the covers off the sofa and cushions to wash and now I want to put them back.  I sorted out all the baby clothes into vacuum bags by age and I want to put them up in the attic.  The dishwasher needs emptying and reloading, clothes need washing and putting away, the floors need vacuuming, the bathrooms need cleaning and the living room has toys scattered hither and thither that desperately need tidying up.

I am grumpy.  I am also in pain.  And I know that I need to listen to what I’ve been told and trust The Boy will do the jobs that need doing when he gets home.  And I need to accept that I’m not Wonder Woman, even if my rather splendid new t-shirt claims something different.

I know I’ve only got a couple of months of pregnancy left so this annoying rest thing won’t go on forever.  And that after Baby B is born I’ll probably be so tired from having a new born that I won’t give a damn if the house is a mess and the laundry basket is full.  I also know I don’t want to be back in the hospital again until it’s time for Baby B to make her arrival.

So.  Feet up.  Accept help.  Try not to whinge too much.

Sigh.

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