1 Feb

So, I just spent the night in hospital. Because apparently I can no longer tell the difference between ‘OMG I’m leaking amniotic fluid’ and pissing my pants. While I’m totally relieved to find out it was the latter, let me just reiterate: I spent the night in hospital, because I wet myself. And to give The Boy credit, at no point did he laugh at me. High five for that one, handsome.

Anyway, it all started on the train. I was feeling off colour but that’s not unusual since it’s freaking HOT here in Sydney right now and spending 40 minutes on a cramped, un-airconditioned train in 40C weather while you’ve got a furnace inside of you is no-one’s idea of fun. Standing up to escape the brewing claustrophobia I felt something kinda pop in my lady-parts and I had a moment of panic. But, I thought, no big deal. Remember, discharge is normal. Expect it happened a few more times, and it got to the point where I’d changed a few pairs of underwear, so I figured it was probably something I should mention to the more educated half.

The more educated half went into professional mode and got me on the phone to the midwives within minutes. Since it was dark, and as everyone knows things always feels worse in the dark, we popped down to the hospital for a bit of a look-see. I got admitted, started to panic, and spent the night fielding nurses who wanted to scratch n sniff my underwear to see if they could tell what was going on. After a few hours on my back the leaking stopped and since Pork Chop was still happily kicking up a storm we all decided to take a chill pill and see what the ultrasound would reveal.

Luckily for all of us Pork Chop was found to be floating happily in a vast pool of amniotic liquid and hadn’t pulled the plug. Which is awesome but it begs the question – where did all that fluid come from?

My theory is that the little whopper, who has taken to using my bladder as a trampoline, gave a few too many well placed kicks in protest of the heat. Which, may I say, is far more embarrassing than the discovery that I have a third nipple. Too much information? You haven’t seen that thing. It’s ready to start a family of its own.

Anyway, at least my OB and The Boy were polite enough to give a few less embarrassing alternatives that I could float around if I wanted, though I believe I’ll be well in need of a pack of Depends before the end of June. And as for Dr. Arnold Kegel – the man was a liar. My vagina has dedicated many an hour to intense push-ups over its life and for what? Diddly-squat.


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