Caught In Limbo.

I think my favorite place to barf is hunched over the hard wood floor downstairs, puking onto a clean towel.

I am dead serious.

Places I hate puking the most are into the toilet and/or the sink.  Why?  The SMELL!!!!!  Makes the puking go on and on and on, cause I can never catch my breathe, never catch a scent of something calming.

Yes, this is a freaking nasty, very pathetic blog post.  But this is my life.

I have no words to describe, nor do I want to take the emotional energy to portray what end of pregnancy 'morning' sickness is like.  All I will say is this.  I spend my ENTIRE day trying not to puke, and I fail miserably every single day.

On days like today I ask myself, "Why in the hell would I not be induced ASAP?", "Why continue one more day of this endless torture if I had an option?".

The truth is, I don't really have a good answer.

From the moment I learned of this pregnancy, I thought, "I am going to be induced a week early with this baby, and get an epidural."  This was my plan the ENTIRE pregnancy....until a little less than 2 weeks ago.

All of a sudden I started thinking that I have never had the chance to know what it is like to go into labor on my own, and started getting REALLY sad to think I was never going to know what that was like.  I want an adventure story, even if its not too adventurous.  I want a real labor story.

This is our last pregnancy, our last baby, our last delivery.  I have such picturesque ideals of how the onset of this labor would go.

It'd be on a dreary fall day, slightly chilly outside, with rain coming down.  I would spend some of the day at home, laboring in my room while listening to the rain outside, as my husband packed the car for the hospital, and the girls came in off and on to check on me.  Some of the day would be spent in a bubble bath, just timing contractions, and reading something peaceful, like devotions from my Jesus Calling devotional.  When things became regular and were picking up more I would get dressed in some comfy (but hospital stylish) clothes, have a 'what to expect' chat with our little girlies, and head out to the van.  I would be in the back with some pillows and blankets.  Laboring away.  Driving into town.  In the rain.  Smelling the rain, and listening to it splash up against the sides of the van, and trickle on the windows.  We'd arrive to the hospital before anything got too hectic, and go from there.

Why do I dare write my own labor story?  Simply because I know it doesn't exist.  God has a plan, I keep hearing.  I know this to be true.  I just fear that his plan for me won't include going into labor on my own.

I've researched online, and know, some women's bodies simply do not go into labor on their own while it is still optimally healthy for the baby.  I've seen this in the life of my friend who started labor around 32 weeks, and in my own life with my child that had to be induced at 42 weeks, and was born with lots of post term 'ailments'.  Neither one of these times were optimally healthy for the baby, yet the body did what it did.  I do of course ultimately want what is healthiest for the baby, and I do realize an induction could be the safest thing for sure.  I just wish for another destiny.

I am in the mourning process.  Still holding out hope.  Trying to be realistic.  And realizing those don't go together.  Caught in limbo.  Puking my guts out.