Dear Brooke Allen: Not Yet (and Nursery Reveal)

Dear Brooke Allen,

Yet again, we thought you were coming the other day.

Thursday morning, I woke up with contractions.

And then I realized they were fairly regular.

So, I grabbed my phone and started up the app that times contractions.

7 1/2 minutes apart, lasting at least 1 1/2 minutes every contraction.

For an hour.

They were so regular, I figured out the sensation I would have right before one would start so I could get the phone ready.

We decided we'd better get things together just in case we needed to go to the hospital.

Your daddy hopped in the shower while I rocked my way through contractions in the bed.

And by rocked, I mean literally rocked. Not in an rock=awesome kinda way, but a rock=swaying back and forth because it was the best way to cope.

While I got in the shower, which was quite difficult having contractions every 7 1/2 minutes, your daddy packed the suitcase. I would yell "OK!" when I needed him to press the button on the phone to time the contraction, and then "OK!" when he needed to stop it.

I know, I know. We should have had the suitcase packed waaaaaaay beforehand, but we didn't.

I called the doctor after I took a shower. Since the contractions were so regular and we were going on two hours, they told us to come on in.

So I put on a little make up, double checked the suitcase (your daddy did pack it, you know), and grabbed a few necessary baby items and threw them in the diaper bag - onesies, nail files, sleepers. I just don't feel right about you staying in the hospital t-shirt the whole time we're there. I'm afraid you'll get cold.

Your daddy moved the car seat from my car to his truck and we threw everything in.

We knew if I actually was in labor, it would be a while before we would eat, so we went through the Burger King drive through on the way.

We finally got to the doctor's office, and they took us to a room. Your heart rate was good, my blood pressure was good, and contractions were still happening.

Then, Dr. Lassiter came in and checked my cervix.

NOTHING.

After almost four hours of what we thought was labor, my cervix was high and closed.

You were not coming at all on that Thursday.

We left the doctor's office stunned. We could not believe that all the pain, pressure, and strength I was feeling from these contractions were just Braxton Hicks.

When we got home, I cried and cried in your daddy's arms in the closet trying to change back into my pajamas.

I cried because I was still having contractions and my stomach was so sore from the constant tightening and releasing.

I cried because I knew these contractions meant nothing.

I cried that I was not going to meet my little girl that day.

I was so excited, thinking we were going to meet you on Thursday. I was finally going to hold you and kiss you and pray on you and tell you how long I've waited for you.

But I didn't get to do that on Thursday.

Friday morning, we had our regular appointment, which Dr. Lassiter told us to keep. We went to the office, still feeling a little defeated from the day before. We saw the other Dr. Hudson, who talked to us about what had happened on Thursday, and then he checked my cervix.

I had dilated 1/2 a centimeter.

Apparently, you were quite busy on Thursday.

I never thought I would be SO EXCITED about 1/2 a centimeter. It meant progress. It meant we only have to go 9 1/2 more centimeters before we will meet you. It meant that Thursday was not all in vain.

Your daddy and I went for a celebratory breakfast at The Pancake House, and then went to Talladega to the International Motorsports Hall of Fame to walk you out and progress some more.

So, here we are, on Monday. We're still waiting. The suitcase we had so frantically packed on Thursday is by the back door, and your diaper bag, wreath, Boppy, and car seat are all still in your daddy's truck.