27 March, 2010. Tall was out at his end-of-season cricket shindig – his last big night out before our baby was due. “You’d better tell this baby of yours to stay put a while longer,” I joked as I dropped him off at the club.
Back home, a reminder for Earth Hour came on the telly. Feeling oh-so-virtuous, I turned off all the lights, lit some candles and started to watch the telly in the semi-darkness. Then I decided that I could go one better – I turned off the telly. I am so totally environmentally conscious, I congratulated myself. Go me!
And then I ran myself a deep, hot bath.
I know. A thousand small animals probably died at that moment, and the world surely must have tilted on its axis by a degree. The rubbish summer most of New Zealand has experienced? Probably my fault. Sorrrrrrrrry!
But I was possessed by the need to shave my legs, despite not having been able to see them for the past few weeks. I simply had to manoeuvre myself into all sorts of impossible positions and de-fuzz – 38-week belly and Earth Hour be damned.
Fast forward to 2.58am. I’m awake (with very smooth legs), really needing to get up and pee; but I am miraculously comfortable (no mean feat when you have the world’s largest basketball attached to your belly), and I don’t want to move. Besides, I can hear my very drunk husband fumbling around in the dark, and I don’t want to become an extra stumbling-hazard.
He finally falls into the bed at 3am. The exact instant he hits the mattress, I am mortified to discover that I am actually wetting myself. I freeze, hoping that by lying as still as possible, this will all stop and the wetness will disappear. Or that I’m dreaming. Yeah, that’s it. It’s just a dream. It doesn’t, and it isn’t…I appear to be letting loose the entire contents of a 10-gallon drum. I know I have to move, to get to the loo, to find towels and clean up this shameful mess.
As I heave myself out of the bed, something feels different. There’s no sense of relief, but instead, a sense of release. There is a strange, unexplainable sensation; not entirely unpleasant, but not entirely comfortable either.
As I pad through across the hall, through the dining room, through the kitchen, into the laundry and round into the toilet (all the while cursing our 1920s home with its separate loo), I am horrified to find that I am still wetting myself. This is so embarrassing!! I think. I’m going to have to get this cleaned up before the morning, I don’t want Tall to see this! I turn on the light, which is something I never do if I need to use the loo at night, and am grateful that I thought to put my glasses on before leaving our bedroom (again, something I never do normally).
And I discover what my brain had registered moments earlier, but couldn’t quite put into words.
My waters have broken.
My bloody waters have broken and my bloody husband is blind-drunk and asleep wearing his shoes and I’m not due for two more bloody weeks and this can’t be bloody happening.