The pregnancy with Ro progressed wonderfully. I was sicker than a dog and somewhat scared of the impending birth. The first time around I was up for anything. This time, I knew what I was in for and it freaked me out a bit. I was a pain in the rear end to my OB and had been dilated 4 cm for two weeks at that point. Finally she told me that if I came to the hospital with regular contractions and IF I had made progress, she would break my water. Dude, I left that appointment, went home and started cleaning. I slept that night, woke up the next morning and I have never walked so much in my entire life. I remember Paul calling me from work at about three and I was walking Zahara around the block in the stroller. He proceeded to chide me with stories of "giving birth on the sidewalk" to which I answered something reminiscent of "I have worked to darn hard to have these contractions stop now..." There may have been some stronger language involved, but I don't remember for sure.
Fast forward and after a great and "easy" birth, Roman Michael was born and we were all doing great. It was eleven o'clock at night when we had our first visitors and I charged my in-laws, aka the grandparents an admission fee of a slice of pizza to see their new grandson. I was starving.
no, really, I promise.