Last night was a very bad night. I was awake for much of it. Well actually that sort of between awake and asleep state that doesn’t let you rest, and doesn’t let you wake enough to sort out whatever the problem is.
In the day, along with some not exactly painful but unusual abdominal twinges and aches, I seemed to have endless Braxton Hicks contractions, so many and so close together that I though I should time and count them and maybe call the midwife. The book said call if you have more than 4 in an hour. I seemed to be having about 10 in an hour. But I didn’t count, and I didn’t call. Instead I left the vague back-of-the-mind anxiety hanging there ready to be distorted and embellished by half sleep dreaming. Once asleep I milked it for all it was worth, spinning it out over what seemed like about 4 fitful hours, until I was definitely in labour, and imminent single handed twin delivery before daylight a certainty (Paul doesn’t like to be woken when he’s in a deep sleep).
When I finally came round enough to be realistic about the situation, and gave myself a (silent but) firm talking to, I let go of the half dream and slept well. I like the way you can do that – but until you wake up enough to be objective, the drama continues.
I always love it when they kick when I wake – this morning I particularly loved it. And I did ring the labour ward today though, just to be sure. I’m fine. What? I knew that…