Yesterday I dragged Ivy to my 11:15 appointment. I apologized to the stylist for having brought my child, and she said "That's okay" in a way that indicated it actually wasn't. And then, to make sure Ivy would sit still, I had to turn Netflix on my phone. The sounds of The Nightmare Before Christmas (Ivy's current fave) soon drowned out the Enya meant to add a relaxing, sleepy vibe to the experience of having hair ripped from one's face. But whatever. Ten minutes and we'd be out of there. OR SO I THOUGHT.
Amy, I think her name was, finished the right eyebrow, and then things got weird. I was all the sudden burning up. Not wanting to be a bother, I quietly asked if I could remove my jacket. But that didn't really help. Part way through the left eyebrow, I had to sit up. And then I thought I might throw up. And then I was convinced I would deliver a child right there on the eyebrow waxing table. I apologized, stood up and made a bee line for the restroom, my confused toddler trailing behind. Turned out a quick walk was all I really needed, and I was able to get that left eyebrow finished without giving birth or passing out. I left a giant tip, tried my best to say sorry for being the most dramatic client ever, and felt sad that I can clearly never return to that salon because Amy did a really killer job on my eyebrows.
As embarrassing as the whole ordeal was, I think it was just what I needed to get jolted into the reality that this child is in fact coming, and that I had better prepare. Yesterday I packed my hospital bag and the diaper bag. Today I washed and organized all those tiny newborn clothes. I've been having braxton-hicks for the last seven hours, and I'm wondering if Ramona will show up ahead of schedule, or if all this preparation will keep her at bay. Probably the latter.