Last week's doctor's appointment came with a bit of a shock: Baby Glade is no longer breach (hooray!), but he had also already dropped. The NP was concerned with how low he was, and told me I needed to drastically scale back my activity. She also said that she could tell I'd been having some heavy contractions. This suprised me quit a bit and made me feel a little dumb: I thought Baby Glade had just found a really creative new way to kick me.
So all this week, I've been trying to be really careful, and pay close attention to the contractions. As the week has gone on, I've been feeling progressively a little worse. I decided to take Thursday off work, in the hopes that laying around for a day would calm things down. But as the day wore on, things felt much worse, instead of better. I ended up deciding to haul myself off to the Relief Society meeting anyways, and it was while sitting through the meeting that I started to think, Uh-Oh. On my way home from RS, I called the 24-hour nurse's line. She told me to high-tail it to Labor and Delivery to check for dilation, and have the contractions monitered. I drove home to get Rob--who had had a REALLY busy day at the hospital, and was JUST about to sit down--and we went to the hospital. The monitor showed that I was having contractions every 2 to 5 minutes, but Baby Glade was healthy and in no apparent distress, and I was not dilated at all. The nurse started an IV, laced with a narcotic to slow the contractions (and it's at this point that my memory fails me), and told Rob that I need to be on bed rest, at least until my next appointment, at which point they will re-evaluate.
The week looms large and empty before me... And the refridgerator looms large and empty. Really, what solace does a pregnant girl have when she runs out of caramel sauce?