I choose…not to yell.

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It’s hard to be patient when you’re enormously pregnant. And hot. Hot AND pregnant is dangerous. 

I went into labor with my son 11 days after my due date. In August. In Atlanta.

I outweighed my husband and was pretty close to edging out my brother who is a very large, very fit cop. I was swollen, grumpy, and verrrrrrry puffy.

When I finally went into labor it was late at night and we went into the whole “hurry to the hospital in the middle of the night” routine that is so popular on TV.

I knew from my appointment earlier in the day that I was already 4 centimeters dilated and I also knew that I had been having regular contractions for the entire afternoon. We needed to get to the hospital quickly and this was my husband’s job.

For some reason he decided to take an alternate route to get there. I was breathing through my contractions when I looked up and had no idea where we were.

Now, to get to our hospital from our house you travel on two surface streets and one freeway. My husband, however, had decided to go through an office park in order to “avoid the street lights” as he explained to me.

It was about 1 am and I can’t imagine that these street lights would be much of a deterrent to us, but to him they seemed like a big deal.

So there we were, winding around curves as I tried to breathe normally and not wince every time my enormous body swayed like an elephant with the movement of the car. Personally, I thought that this was a pretty stupid plan and by the time we got to the SPEED BUMPS outside the hospital, I had nothing nice to say about the ride.

I really REALLY, wanted to chew him out over the “fastest” route.

But, miraculously, I chose not to complain.

It wouldn’t have done any good–what was he going to do, turn around and start over? He was doing his very best to take care of me and of our baby. He would lose an appendage before he caused me pain.

So I “relaxed” and let him take care of the driving and decided not to dwell on whether or not we were taking the “best'” route.

My husband saw his son come into the world safe and sound and we didn’t have a car fight as part of the story.

If I can let my controlling self take a back seat while in pain, I should be able to do it when the stakes aren’t all that high. When dishes aren’t done “right.” When the diaper bag is packed differently than I would have done it. When there’s no good to be had with my criticism.

Sigh. Being a better human being is exhausting.

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