Author’s note: This is the second of a ten-part series recapping and examining the birth story of my Itty Bitty. Birth is a beautiful experience, but some can find the contents of the topic a bit squeemish. In light of this, please note that these posts are neither too graphic, nor are they full of unicorns and rainbows. They’re just the unfettered, unadulterated truth. And the truth is that birth is the most amazing experience of which I have been a part. By far. So, read on – learn, cry, laugh, but most of all, enjoy.

Scene: Crossing the Mount Hope Bridge with a great friend at 60 mph, forty-five minutes away from home, 50 minutes away from the hospital where I was going to give birth. Smash cut to inside the cabin of the car…

Me: “I’m really excited to try out this new breakfast place.”

Friend: “Yeah, their french toast is especially good.”

Me: “Yeah I read that on Yelp, I heard it was to die for. Oh, and just so you know, I have been having minor contractions every thirty minutes or so, and I lost my mucus plug last night.”

Friend: “Yeah there’s nothing like….wait, what? Are you kidding me? You’re telling me this now, when we are on the Mount Hope Bridge? Really? And what the hell is a mucus plug?”

Me: “It’s fine, yes, I lost my mucus plug. But, it’s ok. It doesn’t really mean anything is going to happen any time soon. I mean, things are definitely starting to happen in my body, but I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Friend: “I can’t believe we are going to Newport while you’re having contractions. I don’t really feel comfortable delivering your child ya know. Things just wouldn’t be the same afterwards, and I don’t think I could look you in the face.”

Me: “That’s fine, and if things really pick up, Newport Hospital is gorgeous! Now step on it, I’m craving french toast now!”

That French toast was utterly delightful, and good thing too, because it was one of the last things I ate before giving birth to Itty Bitty.

After brunch, I came home, and suddenly felt uneasy. What’s more, I felt something I have never felt.

I needed to clean.

I actually wanted to clean.

What the hell was wrong with me?!?

The problem was, I have terrible cleaning skills. I mean, you’ve seen my closet. It takes me hours to do simple tasks, and I despise organizing. (I can’t tell you how badly this deficiency(?) bothers my husband. But, he loves me despite my bad habits and his OCD.). There it was, however, the true desire to do dishes, wash clothing, and tidy up our Nerdsery. (Yup, you read that right. A NERDsery. Not a typo. More on this in a later post.) This was truly uncharted territory.

I needed help. It was as if I were one of those people in the LifeCall,”help! I’ve fallen and can’t get up!” commercials. So, naturally, I called up my mom. FYI, my mom is no joke. Pardon the pun, but she doesn’t mess around. Being a retired naval officer, she knows a thing or two about being organized and clutter free. I used to compare her to Danny Tanner from Full House because she was always cleaning. My hubby is Pig Pen when compared to my mom. Seriously, she is the cleaning guru. Of course it took me thirty years, but I finally appreciated those picking up, tidying, and washing skills. My mom and I banged this messy place out in a few hours.

Hubby and I with my mom, a week before Itty Bitty was born

And, by my mom and I, I mean she did all the work by putting away baby clothes, and all my clothes as I bounced on my exercise ball. The work was a little one-sided, but the place came out great. Even my disturbingly clean hubby was happy. But, despite my best half-assed efforts to clean my place, I still knew something was up with me physically.

At the time I just figured they were practice contractions and that birth was still weeks away. I was certainly experiencing some discomfort, but remember, I was Super Woman. I knew that, whatever it was, I was fine. But, in the back of my brain, I definitely recognized that something, in whatever form, was starting to happen to me. And it wasn’t the French Toast coming back to haunt me, if you know what I mean. I just thought I was in freak-out nesting mode and started to work myself up for no reason. So, while my mom was giving my place the Mrs. Doubtfire treatment, I continued to bounce on my Yoga ball in preparation for a birth which was going to be a long, long ways away.

Boy, was I wrong…

This is the second of a ten-part series recapping and examining the birth story of my Itty Bitty. Stay tuned for Part 3.