For the majority of all water-break fake-outs, pee is involved. You’re standing innocently in Harris Teeter, perusing the cans of diced tomatoes (garlic? olive oil? petite diced?) and without warning, you’re standing in a puddle with your jeans soaking wet. Did your water break? you panic. NO. The baby kicked you in the bladder & because you’re a naughty girl that hasn’t done your Kegels, you peed all over yourself. In public. In a grocery store.
Ew.
ANYWAY, I promise you that I did not pee myself. I know this to be fact because a) I had just emptied my bladder before & b) it smelled nothing of urine. But after 45 minutes of soaking in the new fall air with Nate on our back porch, I announced that I should go check on dinner & stood up to this:
A puddle of water directly under me. My skirt & underware SOAKED. Enter in a moment of reverent silence from both Nate & I, quickly followed by “No effing way.”
NO WAY. Right?? Surely I would have felt something. RIGHT?!?!
Nate & I just sort of…stood there. Stupidly. Staring at the wet spot with confuzzled looks on our faces, watching this puddle drip onto the deck. I quickly run a hand up under my skirt — nope, nothing dripping from me. Nate says, “Well, it should smell sweet, right?” and the poor man gets down and SMELLS THE CUSHION for me. Nada. No smell except the stereotypical musty-mold smell that is outdoor porch furniture. We go inside & I check the undies — SOAKED. But more then entire seat of my bum, which would make sense given my reclining position on the cushions. More silent staring at each other.
Seriously, I could have birthed this kid in the kitchen & Nate & I would have stood there staring at each other in disbelief. This almost makes me nervous for our parenting abilities.
& just as we’re about to sound the alarm that HARRISON IS ON HIS WAY, I hold up a hand & say, “Wait a second. We washed those cushions on Sunday afternoon. That could easily be residue water that was sitting in the cushion, & my fat buffalo ass squeezed the water up & out.” We trek back to the porch to inspect the cushions — all others are dry, including the spot where Nate sat for an equal amount of time. Except this one spot where I was sitting. But come on…if my water broke like that, surely I would have felt it. RIGHT?!
So I say, “Okay, why don’t you put the Texas Toast in the oven (priorities, people!) & I’m going to go hop in the shower. I’ll put on fresh undies & if I get those wet, then we’ll know it’s my water.”
Side Note: It’s such a weird feeling, taking a shower & knowing that it might be your last before you push a human out of your body. & which body wash should I use? What do I want to smell like when I give birth? Cucumber Melon? Floral? Pomegranate? Ridiculous, the things that are LEAST important suddenly seem MOST important.
We eat dinner with the occasional panty-check. Nope, nothing. No leakage. I lay down to see if gravity will push Harrison up & keep him from plugging it, therefore allowing me to leak. Nope, nothing. I stand up for 5 minutes. Nothing. I give a call to a few buddies regarding water breakage & my friend Mere volunteers to bring over pH strips. Yes, she had pH strips at home. Long story. She runs over, baby on hip & test strips in hand & I swab myself with these sticks. & we wait. & then realize that we don’t know which strip is supposed to turn what color. pH FAIL. We try Googling it although I safely assume Googling “amniotic fluid on aquarium pH strips” is not something that is typically done.
After 2 hours past the puddle under my butt, I finally decide to call the doctor. I explain the entire situation to her & how I’m not sure if it was my water or my incredible weight on a previously wet cushion. AND SHE LAUGHS. “Honey, this is a first,” she says. “I honestly don’t know what to tell you. It sounds like a water breaking but if you’re not leaking, then it really doesn’t sound like it. Why don’t you put on a pad & go for a 30-minute walk. If you get any leakage, call me & I’ll meet you at the hospital. Otherwise, just keep an eye on it & if you’re still unsure in the morning, come on into the office.”
Nate laces up his kicks, I squish Rosie & her lesbian lover into foam flip flops, & we set out for a walk with Tuck in tow. After I waddled two laps around the ‘hood, we head home for a panty-check. Nope, nothing. Nada. Dry as a bone.
Whisky. Tango. Foxtrot.
Considering that I woke up only secreting the typical pregnancy snail trail, I think we’re in the clear. Baby & uterus hijinks be damned. However, I think I will go in this morning just to be checked once the office opens.
AND I think I should go clean the house one last time, just in case.
