Monday, January 02, 2012

They are called pressure points, but not because they are intended to take that much pressure (Trevor!)...

In an effort to induce labor naturally, Trevor and I watched this You Tube video last night about acupressure points in the lower leg and foot, and then proceeded to try and stimulate (is that the right word?) every single one in the hopes of having a 1-2-12 baby.

The most promising pressure point seemed to be whatever one is located three fingers above my ankle bone, so Trevor went to town while watching the Cowboys get their a$$es handed to them by the NY Giants. It hurt (hey, the lady in the video said it wasn't going to be comfortable), but Trevor decided to turn it into a game to see just how much agony I could take before caving.

Had I not been so desperate for ANYTHING labor-wise to happen, I probably would have seen through the facade of "no pain, no gain" and realized that Trevor was having way too much fun intentionally trying to hurt me to be taking the pressure point stimulation seriously.

And all this would be how I ended up with deep, Trevor-thumb-sized divots in both of my legs last night, and bruises this morning:

And, yes. I am still pregnant 24 hours later.

So, either the acupressure points don't work or mine are now broken and completely useless.

(I'm going with the latter, because obviously.)

And because I like to send mixed messages, today I bought my husband a new watch at Nordstroms.

Because that is what every wife should do after her husband leaves her with bruises the night before.

[Shakes head]

To be fair, I just couldn't psychologically handle him wearing his heart rate monitor to the office one more day. True, it does have a small digital clock on it, but it is first - and foremost - a heart rate monitor with a cloth wrist strap that is sweat stained and smells. He might as well have stopped wearing deodorant.

But now all I have are bruised and potentially broken pressure points and Trevor has this:

Which more or less makes everything right with the world. Except, of course, for the fact that I am still pregnant. But as long as Trevor is happy and presentable, life is good.

(Or maybe that is just what I am telling myself at this point.)

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