Fifteen minutes later I told my snoring husband to get his butt out of bed, after all, if I had to suffer through contractions and possibly popping out a kid, the least he could do was make me a smoothie. I had roughly three drinks of my smoothie before the contractions hit about ten minutes apart, and the smoothie was left largely untouched.
My husband is a self-proclaimed wuss when it comes to medical stuff, and Grey’s Anatomy sends him into bouts of the heebie-jeebies, but he was unbelievably calm throughout the entire process. He was calm as he rocked and swayed me while I clung to his shoulders. He was calm when I sunk down into a hot tub and ordered him to go take a shower so that he would feel refreshed throughout what promised to be a good day. He was calm when he heard me grunting in so much pain I couldn’t breathe and had to punch the wall. He was calm when at the end of a contraction I burst into mournful tears, and begged him to assure me that this was really happening and this wasn’t another false alarm. He was calm when I said two more and we are going to the hospital.
Hubs put a towel down on the seat in case my water broke, made an ice pack, and loaded me into the car. One of the brightest moments of my last 20 minutes at the house was when I said goodbye to my roommate in law, and told him I was going to bring him back a nephew, and he burst into applause.
We got into the car and one very lucky traffic avoidance and four contractions later, we were at the hospital.