A few days ago, Mark, having read the graphic book chapter I gave him on birthing, quietly went downstairs, got the roll of industrial-strength plastic that we used to waterproof our garage with, and covered our mattress in a double sheet of it. So now when I roll over in bed (every ten minutes) I make loud crinkly noises, in addition to the other noises which have been a feature of our bedroom for some time now (small grunts followed by satisfied exhalation as the bump overcomes momentum and settles into position as I try to change sides; surprised little 'ahs!' from me as the baby scrapes foot/hand/head along peritoneum; a shuffle-grunt-shuffle acompanying my Olympian efforts to get out of bed for yet another pee.)
It seems Mark's taken seriously the threat of catastrophic flooding, should my waters break. Even though this is much rarer than what the movies/TV would have you believe. He's also learning interesting new vocabulary like 'show', 'epidural', 'episiotomy' and 'engagement' (note to other father to bes: when your wife says "I think she's engaged", saying "really? I didn't think she was old enough," is unlikely to be funny.) And over the past week, I've been getting more and more Braxton-Hicks 'practice' contractions.
Anyway. Today while pottering around the house I felt a gush between my legs, went "Oooo" and looked down. The gush isn't that unusual (I can see all you ever-been-pregnant ladies reading this and nodding sagely). I did the usual thing - went to the loo to check the size and nature of this latest leakage. Looked up to see Mark frozen in the doorway.
"Yeah.... why wouldn't I be?"
My bags still aren't packed for the hospital. Maybe I should soon, if only to stave off Murphy's Law.