A town called Hope

There's no better way to get the pregnant lady in a tizzy than to come in and dangle the prospect of going home in front of her ass-white pale face.

One of the maternal fetal medicine specialists, coincidentally, the same one who read my ultrasound and placed me in the hospital, came in today and said, "Well if you stay the same at Monday's ultrasound, I think we can start talking about home care."

Had I not been confined to bed, I would have jumped out and kissed her, a big wet one right on the mouth.

I was very excited to even have the possibility of home mentioned. I promise I can be good and I will not get up or go downstairs or anything. I will sit down in the shower. I will not get up and go look at the baby room. I will be VERY well-behaved.

Josh seemed skeptical when I told him. My sister flat-out told me it is a bad idea. I say, what the hell. There's nothing they do here that I can't do at home. They can even monitor my contractions from there, or so I hear.

While I can see the value in staying here for a few more weeks, I also really want to sleep in my own bed. And see the cats. And have high-speed internet. And have Josh around instead of coming back and forth.

I am not getting my hopes up (can you tell) yet. It's just nice to have the idea of a possibility to look forward to.

But I am being realistic. My regular OB/GYN sat in this very room this morning and told me she did not see how I could possibly go home at 26 weeks. In fact, she said, "I do NOT want to deliver you at 26 weeks."

Conflicting reports, yes. But a glimmer of hope.