On Monday I woke up at 6:00, went to the gym and ran five miles, feeling awesome. I came home and started getting ready for work, turned on the shower, was doing my thing, and noticed a little blood, which is never a good thing, especially for moms-to-be. I called my trusty 811 and they recommended I go into a walk-in clinic to get checked out, but I decided to forgo the clinic and head straight to the hospital - in hindsight, one of my best decisions ever. I called Peter who immediately headed for home to drive me to the hospital, and called into work to let them know I'd miss our morning production meeting and that I wasn't sure about an afternoon meeting we'd had scheduled.

I figured we'd be sent home from the hospital within 15 minutes with a clean bill of health and a "these things happen" spiel. Instead, after being hooked up to a heart rate and activity monitor, I found out I was having contractions 2-4 minutes apart. At 32 weeks - waaaay too early for those sorts of shenanigans. And I wasn't even feeling anything!

My first thought was "I'm NOT ready to have this baby yet!" I was worried about totally unimportant things at first - from the shallow, insignificant fact I hadn't shaved my legs (I'd cut my shower short) to thinking about how the nursery isn't totally finished.

And then we realized that the baby's heart rate was dipping after my contractions, which led the nurses and doctor to believe the baby may be in distress. At this point I started to panic. Normally, when preterm labour starts, doctors will administer drugs right away to stop the contractions and stop labour, no problem. However, if the baby's in danger, sometimes it's better to let labour progress and have the baby right away.

My next stop was the birthing room, which was completely surreal. I got put in a johnny shirt, had an IV hooked up, and got the activity monitor strapped back on at regular intervals to track my contractions and the baby's heart rate. I tried to keep my shit together and not completely lose it and start bawling. The nurses and doctors were all wonderful, answered all my questions, and took excellent care of me and Pete, who never left my side. I wasn't allowed to eat or drink anything, which I realized was in case I ended up having a baby that afternoon.

I cannot explain how frightening it is, when you legitimately think you have seven or eight weeks to prepare for something, and being told it might happen that same day. Imagine getting a deadline at work or at school wrong - by eight weeks - and realizing whatever it is, is due that day. Now multiply that panic you feel by like, five million, due to the fact that this isn't a paper you need to pass in, or a client meeting you need to get ready for, but potentially bringing a baby into the world seven weeks early. That was me on Monday.

The baby had to be analyzed for overall health and size. When my stomach was measured externally, it was measuring small - adding a whole new complication (in addition to having a preterm baby, I'd also be having a baby that was extra small for his or her age). We had an ultrasound to confirm the measurements, and thankfully we found out the baby's head was just super low, which made him or her appear smaller. Our baby is actually in the 29th percentile for size for its age, and weighed 4lb 4oz on Monday. He or she also scored an 8/8 on an overall wellness test, so we knew at least if they were an early bird, they'd have a good start. I was given a shot in the bum of a steroid to help develop baby's lungs in case I went into full-fledged labour.

My cervix was checked (which is a disgusting process, btw) and was 1.9 cm dilated, so something funky was going on. I also had a swab test done to check to see whether I was at risk of going into preterm labour and it came back positive. The OB decided to start me on the drug to slow my contractions, which happened late Monday. I was so excited to hear I'd be getting the drug. I was less excited to hear it doesn't always work.

Overnight the drugs kicked in and my contractions became weaker and irregular. I spent Tuesday in the hospital receiving a lower dose of the medication, and had my last dose on Wednesday afternoon. I stayed in the hospital another 24+ hours with no medications to make sure I didn't start contracting again, and got released this afternoon, four days later.

Now that I'm home, I'm on a "reduced activity" plan until I go into labour or 36 weeks, whichever comes first (please, please, please let us make it to 36 weeks if not longer!) I'll find out for sure on Monday if I'm done work early, which also sucks and is unexpected, but as one of the nurses pointed out, having kids is alllll about dealing with the unexpected, so this is good practice. If we make it to 36 weeks, the baby is considered full term and there's no risk of delivering early, so that's the goal.

Every day the baby stays put is two fewer days he or she would need to spend in the hospital after being born, so we're hoping and praying they're content in there. Every twinge I feel, I panic. I hate the idea of bedrest and reduced activity - I despise sitting still. I hate the thought of not being able to work out or clean the house or shake my tailfeathers for the next few weeks but I hate the thought of our little one being in danger even more. We're 33 weeks today. Please hang in for at least three more weeks, baby!

And this is why I'm convinced (again) that I'm having a boy. A little girl simply wouldn't cause all this trouble. But for a bratty little boy this is typical behaviour.

I don't have a 32-week photo either. Those johnny shirts at the hospital? Not flattering.