Congratulations! It's a...

False alarm. I'm sure every woman who has ever been pregnant has had a false alarm. Those pains and cramps that you're convinced are labor pains so you rush to the hospital, only to be turned away and told to go home and come back when the contracts are regular and painful because what's you're experiencing is just a "false alarm." Today was my daughter's turn. I wasn't with her when she went to the hospital this morning at 7am. I was at her home, sleeping on her futon that has a depression in the middle of it as large as the Mariana Trench. I came out of a sound sleep when I heard my iPhone buzzing so hard it buzzed itself right off the coffee table. It was my daughter, informing me by text message that her sergeant was concerned about her abdominal pain and had taken her to the hospital, where she was hooked up to a fetal monitor. If that doesn't give your morning a kickstart without a cup of Dunkin Donuts coffee, I don't know what will. Amanda said she had been having little contractions and some 'bigger' ones and that the doctor was going to look at the monitor tape of her contractions to see what the next step would be. Suddenly wide awake, I sat there with my cell phone in my hand, waiting for her next text. Was this it? Had my grandson finally gotten the message that we wanted him out and in the world? My stomach churned with a combination of fear, anxiety and excitement, only to have my hopes dashed 15 minutes later when I received another text from Amanda stating she had been released from the hospital because the contractions weren't frequent enough and that she was still only dilated to 1cm. She arrived home about 20 minutes later, looking exhausted and frustrated, and I promptly sent her to bed to rest. There is nothing more frustrating for a pregnant woman than a false alarm. I remembered back to when I was pregnant with my first child, my son Jason, and my own experience with a false alarm. My well-intentioned mother-in-law persuaded me to drink castor oil in an effort to get my labor going and it worked - for a little while. Four hours, to be exact, and my husband I shuffled up and down the halls of the hospital, me dragging an IV pole, waiting for the contracts to become more regular. They didn't. And I was home about four hours later and it was another three weeks after that the doctor decided enough was enough and induced my labor. Thirty six hours later I finally gave birth to my son - a strapping, 11-pound baby, who was born looking like a toddler.
Amanda and I  did some more walking today, had lunch at a great, authentic German restaurant in Hinesville (who would've thought) and capped off the day with ice cream, potato chips and a couple of movies on DVD. Tomorrow is another day.