This is no time to panic!

Actually, two weeks away from the big day, give or take, is the perfect time to panic. This is the time one remembers there is only one way out of the pregnancy, and that is through the valley of the shadow of death. I awoke at 3:30 this morning (to visit the bathroom, of course), but I couldn't get back to sleep for the sense of impending doom. I remember all too well all the sensations of labor and delivery, and spent an hour and a half arguing with myself about whether I could do it again without the epidural. Scratch that, I know I can do it again. The question is, do I want to do it again.

Noah's was the only delivery where I decided that an epidural was the way to go--Macon was an emergency C-section, and the other four were natural, no-drug deliveries. (Since Noah learned this, he tells everyone that I took drugs when I was pregnant with him. That usually raises a few eyebrows.) I didn't particularly like the epidural; it made me feel weepy and needy. I did not mind placidly watching basketball, however, as I waited for transition to be over. That part was okay.

What I want to avoid are those last overpowering waves of transition labor and the leg shaking, back-aching, get-that-kid-out pushing phase. One of my labors, after the baby had finally slipped out into someone's waiting hands, I lay back on the pillow and closed my eyes, and stayed there. Some short while later, another well-meaning someone was ready to give me the baby, and I was so exhausted, I didn't particularly want to hold it! Once I opened my eyes, adrenaline and maternal instinct took over, and I was all about the tiny person I had just delivered. But those few minutes of just let me die are what kept me awake last night, dreading it all.