The Hardest Part

Is the waiting, of course!

I started to put together the bag for the hospital. Like all first-rate procrastinators, it's only half-filled, and likely to remain that way until we're actually stepping out the door. I have set myself up for success by leaving a list of missing items inside the bag itself, so I won't be running around going, "I forgot this, I forgot that, blah blah blah."

At my baby class, the instructor suggested items for the bag, and they were good suggestions, all. I altered the list a wee bit, mostly because (unlike most expectant mothers, apparently) I don't plan on scooting to the hospital the moment I go into labor. Hells no. I plan on staying home and terrifying Jake for as long as possible. "AAAHHHH I feel the head coming out! No, just kidding, but seriously, rub my feet."

I don't want a home birth. Too messy for me, thanks. Cleaning up dog diarrhea was bad enough; I might have an aneurysm if I had to clean up placenta. Especially from carpet. And the Stanley Steemer guy might freak out if there was a giant blood stain on our carpet. I'd assure him that it was because of a baby and not because I stabbed someone in the face and then cut their body into small parts and fed it into the garbage disposal.

Then I'd stare at him like this

until he left.

Along with the hospital bag list I recorded at the baby class, I also looked up suggestions online. Because that's what I do, double-check things on the Google. And I think I'm pretty good at finding fun extra stuff that otherwise would have gone un-thought-about until I got to the hospital and said, "You know, I could really go for Item X."

One of the online lists I found had comments. Most of them sang the praises of this particular list (which was very similar to the one I had already written down at baby class), and several had other suggestions. For example, the prissier commenters said to bring your own underwear because then you won't feel so much like a hospital patient. Well, I don't feel like ruining my own underwear just so I can feel "normal." I hang out in PJs all day anyway; a couple of days in a hospital gown isn't going to phase me, really. Also, I really don't want to ruin my underwear. It's all VS! And I refuse to buy granny panties from Wal-Mart. Refuse.

Another suggestion said that, rather than bringing Maxi-pads, you should just bring Depends.

Depends?

Uh huh.

Yeah, great idea.

Except for those of us who aren't really big fans of embarrassing the bejesus out of ourselves at the grocery store. I know the cashiers there. They know me. I had a hard enough time buying those Maxi-pads (super ultra mega absorbent nighttime 3-feet-long Maxi-pads, if you must know) and some nursing pads. I wouldn't be able to even put the Depends in my cart. I'd make Jake do it. And Jake wouldn't do it. He'd make me do it and stand nearby with a camera and laugh hysterically as I wheeled my adult-diaper-filled cart through the grocery store whilst turning 102 shades of red.

So, I'm skipping the Depends. I doubt I'll regret my decision.