At 11:30pm this evening I came face to face with my mucus plug.
I very calmly told Nate of my icky underpants discovery and he immediately leaped from the sofa and declared he needed to go to bed.
Nate did not book it to the bedroom because he’s an ass, mind you. He has been sick all day: sleeping on the sofa, groaning that his belly hurts every three minutes of consciousness, and even puking in his mouth a little. Yum. He either has food poisoning from some shrimp ball concoction he ate the night before or he’s got a virus. Either way, this boy needs to recover. I have sitcom-like visions of Nate passing out in the delivery room and everyone rushing to his aid while I glare at him bitterly.
Hopefully we can both sleep tonight. Of course, I’m now a ball of energy feeling the need to tidy up everything. Before Nate made his way upstairs I called out to him, “I don’t want this baby coming home to this Christmas tree!” Poor Nate.
I’m trying to remind myself that just because a large hunk of goo has exited my body, does not mean labor will kick in asap. Besides, I have brunch plans tomorrow. And the bag I just half-assly packed for myself needs a redo.