I'm not going to blog about the joys of having contractions every 90 seconds since noon on Sunday.
I'm not going to blog about the nasty 5000 calorie lunch at Burger King I ate trying to scare the kid out of me.
I'm not going to blog about how I spent all Monday in the observation room at Labor and Delivery just to be sent home empty handed.
Instead, I've spent the past few hours looking up some induction techniques on the internet. Here are some I'm considering:
When Plains Indian women were near term but showed no signs of labor, their tribe was happy to help. She would be tied to a rock and the men would stage a mock attack, pulling up their horses at the last minute hoping to scare it out of her. Maybe we could try this with our Toyota instead. Besides, I've been meaning to have the brakes checked on that thing for a while now.
The Pilgrims would tie overdue women to a pole, and pound the pole up and down against the ground attempting to shake the baby loose. I'm endlessly amazed at how much fun those Puritans had despite themselves. It's a tragedy that this family-friendly tradition has been lost by the wayside.
Another old superstition was that whipping male servants induced labor. There is record of one birth where a medieval German Empress had 20 men whipped outside of her labor room to ensure a successful delivery. Who would I have whipped? Maybe I could get a few of the bag boys from my grocery store to volunteer. Or somehow coerce that surly cashier at my library into taking a few stripes. It may not bring a baby, but it would make me feel better about all my questionable late fees.
Then there are the hundreds of Italian restaurants that claim to have dishes that will send a woman straight to the delivery room. I'm betting most of these dishes contain rat poison and should be eaten only in case of extreme crabbiness. At this point, I pretty sure I could pull off a convincing Crabby. Bring on the stromboli.