"This case deserves to be a classic." *

The Queen of Japan narrates the following story:
A young Japanese boy, Sunoco, discovers his father has been killed. He enlists the help of the Queen, who orders Sherlock Holmes to time-travel (from present-day America) to help solve the mystery. Sherlock discovers that Sunoco’s father was murdered by a pig-Latin-speaking Roman centurion who had traveled to Japan for that explicit purpose. The Queen, Sunoco, and Sherlock band together to capture and imprison the centurion. And then Sherlock time-travels back home, and the Queen adopts Sunoco to become the prince.

The End.

Written, directed, and produced by Group #5 (Primo, A, E, and T).
Courtesy of Primo's first grade opera workshop project.

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*Sherlock Holmes, The Adventure of the Priory School

"The Shepherd-boy shouted in an agony of terror: 'Pray, do come and help me; the Wolf is killing the sheep,' but no one paid any heed to his cries..."

Immediately after I posted the last post, the contractions stopped.
(That reminds me of that old joke about the coughing coffin...does anyone know what I am talking about?)

Anyhoo, the contractions eased up, so I am back to merely being grumpy, uncomfortable, and breathless. Exacerbated by the fact that now the public schools are not going to strike, they feel free to declare two-hour delays for just about anything including, it seems, the superintendent's hangnails. Oh, all RIGHT, I know we had an ice storm but when I was in school...let me tell you, uphill both ways, barefoot, in the snow...blah blah blah....

I did something else last night I am now really sorry I did (other than leading my Internet pals down the garden path): I skipped ahead in a book I was mostly enjoying to find out what happened and am pretty sure I ruined reading the rest of the book, since what happened in the book was of course meant to devastate the reader, and I actually didn't much care.

WHAT was I thinking? Now I need to rethink my hospital books again...

Oh! And I may not have a baby yet, but I am the proud owner of a lovely silver Honda Odyssey minivan (the whole process involved much less pushing than childbirth, too). I haven't driven an automatic since I learned to drive eons ago, but I suppose I'll manage. It's wonderful and ROOMY.

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*Aesop, "The Boy Who Cried Wolf"

"Thou know'st, the first time that we smell the air, we wawl and cry." *

All that contracting and pressure and ouchies, and so out of breath last night that I couldn’t even sleep, and I am still only 1 cm. SO unfair. But my blood pressure was waaaaaayyy up – because today’s appointment and next week’s appointment had been cancelled – NOT by me – and my chart was missing.

Remember when I told you – did I tell you? – that I told H that he had to remember one thing, that I was strep B positive this pregnancy? And he said, “Well, it’s not as if it’s not in your chart. And how am I supposed to remember that?” And I glared at him and said, “*I* will be in labor. Surely you can remember ONE MEASLY LITTLE THING if I ask you to.” (He looked suitably abashed and mumbled, “Yes, but don’t call me Shirley.”) And there I go this morning, with NO CHART.

No wonder my normally lovely low blood pressure was 140 over 100. But they found the chart and resolved the appointment issue – turns out that the fact of a simple phone call – by me - to suss out the situation at my old doctor’s new practice was enough to cause appointments to be cancelled and charts to be moved, even though I had signed no release forms or cancelled any appointments my own damn self. Jesus Crisis.

When they rechecked my blood pressure before sending me home – no closer to labor than when I’d arrived – it was back to normal. So, I am still contracting, and am still hurting, and can’t breathe, and am very very VERY grumpy, and can’t even think about food, but I am apparently NOT about to have a baby, say, anytime in the next 24 hours. Dammit.

I zipped through The Wednesday Wars last night, though, so must replace that on my hospital stack. I LOVED it. I want to own it, will definitely reread it, and it prompted me to hunt down a copy of The Tempest to reread. I don’t know what happened to my pretty little blue clothbound Yale Shakespeare volume, but I dug out one of my volumes of the teeny red leather Works of Shakespeare – the ones that turn my fingers red, like dyed pistachios do - and started in. (I wasn’t about to lug around my Riverside.) So yeah, I am such a dork that I lay in my doctor’s examining room on my left side, waiting for my blood pressure to decrease, and read Shakespeare.

I thought I had more to say but in the hour since I started writing this post, I have started experiencing what may well be real contractions. So I'll wrap up now and go lie down. And wait for H to return from the car dealership. I called him at work and asked him to bring me a vanilla milkshake, but apparently he got distracted and is bringing me a blue minivan instead.

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*King Lear, Act 4, sc. 6, 179–180