33 + 6

Well I had an exciting evening last night. Three bottles of Flash cleaning spray for £2. What a bargain! Then at 10pm, when I couldn't take the pain any longer, I called the mid-wife. Now I expected her to tell me to stop being a wuss, take two more paracetamol and go to bed but she said I should go in to be checked over. Cue a massive groan.

My first thought was, is my hospital bag properly packed just in case, followed by I'm too tired to actually care. I grabbed my notes and off we went. I knew what was coming - urine sample, monitor baby's heart ('oh your baby is very excitable!' Excuse me? Excitable? She had better calm the fuck down then because she has eighteen years of misery ahead of her) and any contractions I may be having, a long wait and then the doctor and her dreaded duck contraption. Now I don't know what the technical term for this is, but any woman who has had an internal examination will know what I mean. It looks like a ducks beak, they use it to open you up and it fucking hurts. Any man may think that it is quite enjoyable, any sick man that is. It isn't. Imagine having an internal exam in your willy, using tweezers to open the hole up. Yeah. That.

By 1am we were home, me clutching a box of antibiotics (suspected water infection although that wasn't confirmed by the urine sample, they 'wanted to cover all bases'), him clutching at straws. I think I've turned him into a nervous wreck, nothing more than he deserves for getting me into this state. Yes it takes two to tango, but shut up.

By 4am she had calmed down and I managed to get some sleep.

Now she's awake again and shit do I know it.

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