I realize you, dear reader, may not want to hear about my cervix.
I empathize with you: I'm not entirely sure I wanted to hear about my cervix either, but since the little squashy bugger kind of belongs to me, there I was, being told that it was effacing and dilating.
That it was 75% disappeared. That it was opening. And this was this afternoon.
I realize this means little: there are women who walk around in such a state for weeks before their bodies decide to expel the tenant in question.
But there is still that ring of alarm that gets set off inside your head and won't leave, as if you'd wandered into a very large bell and someone had struck it while you admired its insides and now you have this weird ringy tingling all over you.
Anticipation. Expectation. Abject and utter fear.
So this is why it was nice to have also been able to relax and allowed someone to make a small yet important part of me feel pretty and polished and put together.
Because at this point, the expectation (um… pun intended?) is slowly driving me insane.