I hate this yeast. I hate it with every fiber of my being.

Yesterday, we went to my midwife to see about the raging boob yeast. “I’m not entirely sure that is yeast…” she said. See, she said that because I have taken it upon myself to wash the evil bumps with Dial soap. Yes, Dial soap. It’s no longer as bumpy, but it looks like someone took a cheese grater to it. I was, desperate, see? It had to go away, and Dial kills 99.9% of…well, everything. I figured, what the hell? Might kill of the yeast, too.

It didn’t. Just my skin. Now I’m not so bumpy but raw, ragged and itchy. I am an idiot.

She prescribed me a 3 month treatment of Diflucan. THREE MONTHS. Because, apparently, my yeast is evil.

Ben’s pediatrician prescribed him more Nystatin because the Miconazole was not working. If it doesn’t go away in yet another two weeks, he’s to go in and see them. However, after one treatment of Nystatin last night, he’s much less red and there are nearly no more bumps left. I think we’re finally in the home stretch with his demonic yeast.

Now, I’m going to go boil my nipples.

After getting my membranes stripped on Monday morning, I had pretty regular contractions the rest of the day. We got to bed around midnight, contractions about 7-10 mins apart, not lasting more than a couple of seconds. At 3am, I awoke to some relatively harsh pains that refused to stop, even when I asked them to. I got up at about 3:30 and began timing. They were 4 mins apart, 30 seconds long.

I awoke Eric (actually the wind awoke him when it slammed the bedroom door shut, but same difference) at about 4 and let him know what was going on. I tried going back to bed at 5, with them 4 mins/50 seconds. It wasn’t working. We both got up at 6. I called the midwife. I hadn’t wanted to awaken her before that. She said to eat something, take a shower and come on in. So that’s just what we did.

We got there around 8:30. They checked us in, hooked me up to some monitors and answered a million questions that seemed entirely ridiculous to me. L&D admissions came down and asked the same questions all over again, supplied me with an admissions bracelet and gave us our “patient contact number.” Silly me, I thought that meant I wouldn’t be going home.

I was still at 2cm, although my contractions were showing at 3 minutes apart and 90 seconds long. To make an already entirely too long story short, they had me walk about for about 4 hours, checking and stretching (OW) me every hour or so. The farthest I got was 3.5cm, 3 mins, 90 seconds. Unless I wanted to be hooked up to Pitocin right then to get things going, they’d send me home. I went home.

So tomorrow at 7:30am is my induction. I think I may actually have a little fluid leakage but it doesn’t quite matter at this point. His head is so far engaged there’s very little chance of any infection or cord slippage. We’re going to try to get some good sleep in our own bed tonight in preparance for tomorrow’s marathon. Not that I’ll be able to, but it’s better than trying in a hospital.

Another bit of good news, no Cytotec needed! Takes a helluva lot off my mind. I’m still scared of the Pitocin and probably epi, but it’s 100% less horrifying of an idea without the Cytotec crap added. Woohoo!

2 cm dilated and 70% effaced. Hoh yeah! I know it’s not a huge improvement but it’s something, and that is really all that matters.

She stripped my membranes and I had contractions for about an hour afterwards. Then I went on a 30 minute walk, which is supposed to keep contractions going. Make them stronger, even. It didn’t. In fact, it made them stop entirely.

I think my body is officially a rebel.

My foot has never been a skinny minnie. She’s always been quite a chubberoo, but a cute chubberoo. I’m sad to say I no longer feel any love for my foot. It’s 12″ around today. My foot is a foot around. And that fold in the ankle? My foot’s stretched out. The fold is from the swelling. My toes feel like they’re on fire, the entire thing is throbbing and it’s not responding to any sort of nice treatment or kind words. I do believe I may be the first woman to give birth through her ankle. It definitely feels that way.

Take a look at it folks. It huge, it’s grotesque, and it’s actually on it’s way down in that picture. My right foot has begun swelling to insane proportions in the past week or so. It’s so large, even my Crocs no longer fit. The day we went shopping, it had actually managed to swell through the holes in the top of my Crocs. How ridiculous is that? Had I stood any longer I am convinced my foot would’ve swallowed my shoe like The Blob did to so many teenagers. As adorable as this whole marshmallow foot is, I miss being able to tell I actually have an in-step. I certainly miss not having stretching pains in the skin on my foot. Most of all, however, I will miss having cute toes. Not these pathetic, wrinkley, “I’m suddenly 107 years old” toes thanks to the dramatic gain and loss of water in them, and definitely not the little Vienna sausages that have been ruling the roost as of late.

One week to go and my main reason for wanting this kid out has become the insane swelling of my feet. You know, since the whole inability to lift my legs or sleep isn’t enough.

On a side note: The Girl rocks my socks. She’s terribly sweet, and don’t you dare let her tell you otherwise.