This has not been a good pregnancy week. Contractions, a sluggish baby who refuses to kick on command, an anxious freak out at the doctor's office...
It started on Sunday afternoon. There were contractions. I rested. They went away. They came back. I drank water and rested. They went away. They came back. I drank more water and rested and considered calling the doctor. They went away. They came back. I drank more water and rested and seriously considered calling the doctor. They went away, and stayed away. And an entire Sunday afternoon and evening, one that I'd hoped would include a walk to the park, pushing Axel on the swings, starting to organize the baby's clustered and junk-filled room, and cleaning out the refrigerator, was gone.
Usually I wouldn't be disappointed that something interferred with my ability to clean the fridge - that's the sort of thing I look for excuses not to do - but I've started to get those antsy, itchy, pregnant lady desires to alphabetize cereal by main ingredient and wash all of the onesies. As the baby's future room is full of a desk, bed, files, boxes of baby gear, cleaning supplies, and stuff that's been displaced from the mid-remodel basement (and that can't yet be moved back), there's only so much onesie organizing that can be done.
So, my dreams of a sparkling fridge and a future baby's room with a cleared walking path dashed, it was on to Monday. Monday, when I realized I hadn't done any kick counts in a couple of days and, come to think of it, I hadn't felt all that much kicking. So, I drank juice. And rested. And drank juice. Finally, there were some kicks. Slow, half-hearted kicks, but ten of them within an hour.
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