So I spent a couple hours in the hospital Saturday.
I've been watching my contractions for a week now, timing and drinking and taking note. Saturday morning, after I had six in an hour while I was lying in bed, I knew it was time to make a phone call. Frequent contractions at 26 weeks is NOT normal.
Less than five minutes apart is dangerous.
I called my Dr. at home (have I told you how great my doctor is?) and he said, "you better go get checked." I called my Mutti, who has seen every pregnancy experience under the sun, and she said, "you do NOT want to be on medicine for preterm labor. It is horrible. You also do not want to have a baby three months early. Do WHATEVER IT TAKES."
She may also have said "I will do your grocery shopping for you" and "We will tie you to the couch if we have to."
Anyway, Slice and I went to the hospital.
Sparing you the -painful!- details, they didn't find anything seriously wrong. I shouldn't go into labor within the next two weeks. And I don't have to be on bedrest. Yet.
"Just take it easy," they told me.
(I know, right?)
But we still don't know why I contract every time I stand up - do you know how many times in a day you have to stand up?! - or bend over, plus frequently when I am sitting or lying down and doing nothing. When I shower they go in rapid-fire succession.
It's really not fun.
P.S. In case you're wondering, this child is wilder than ever. While I was hooked up and the nurse was trying to get a heartbeat, he kicked and punched and moved around. Typical. We could hear the punching on the monitor, so she poked a little and slid the wand all over, trying to catch him.
(I could almost hear him giggling.)
After a few minutes - "Wow, he's active, isn't he?"
"IS HE EVER."
"Uh ... wow. We'll, uh ... we'll just leave it at that."