I think I can, I think I can

I'm nine months pregnant, so it's pretty much all I think/talk about right now. If you're tired of hearing about it, go read someone else's blog.

So, early Wednesday morning (12:42, to be exact), I had a realio-trulio contraction. I sat up, looked at the clock, and made a mental note. Then another one ten minutes later. And another one, eight minutes later. I thought, "this is it! Finally!" And so it went, from just before one in the morning, until about 6:30. At about 3:30, I woke Mark up and let him know what was up. He went back to sleep - which is good, because I need him to be well-rested and chipper - and I stayed up breathing and watching the clock. By 6:30, I was pretty sure we were going to have a baby today. I was also so tired I was falling asleep between contractions. So, I decided to lay down - circled about by pillows in a lame effort to be comfortable - and get what sleep I could between contractions. And the contractions shut down completely.

I woke up an hour and a half later, feeling better rested, but confused as to why I slept the whole time, with nary a contraction to wake me up. I got up. Nothing. Showered. One little pitiful one, then nothing. And that was the rest of our day. Mark took the day off of work, and puttered around the house, checking on me as often as he could without being obsessive. The kids were all a-buzz. But By three in the afternoon, I was really frustrated, because I hadn't had more than two or three contractions in an hour since my nap. So, I had Mark load the kiddoes up in the van, and we went to a local park with lots of shade and walking paths. I marched around the park ("I'm going to have this baby today, danggit!") while Mark pushed Yvy on the swings and the other kids played in the stream. After an hour, Yvy was tired of the swings, Eliza had fallen all the way in the stream, I was absolutely pooped, my hands & feet had started to swell up...but still no contractions.

And here we are, Thursday evening. Still no serious labor indicators. Just me being frustrated with not being in charge. Eliza keeps coming up to me with a big sigh and saying, "When is Squid going to get here?" And I tell her that Daddy and I get to pick the name, but the baby and Heavenly Father get to pick the birthday. And she'll respond, "But when are they going to do that?"

Mark is picking up the Seminary stuff I dropped off the other day, and I am teaching Seminary tonight - no other pressing obligations, and no really good reason not to - and carrying on with my life instead of wallowing in late-term self-pity.

I do have to tell you this: Mark and I were sitting on the couch yesterday evening, feeling a little defeated, when he said that he had decided we were going to go ahead and name this little boy after my grandfather, George Morse Wilson...even though I missed my birthday, and thus voided the original naming agreement. I was very touched. I had pretty much given up on that, and when I did, I was surprised at how sad I felt, and how attached I had become to the whole concept. What a sweet man. So, we keep calling him Squid, but he is George Wilson Galbraith. Or G. W., like out of that John Wayne movie, McLintock.....or we could be really cheeky and just call him Dubbya.