The Uterus is a Social Butterfly

I've decided to volunteer at Northside Hospital. I know, as if I don't already have tons of stuff to do and kids to wrangle love. For those of you who don't know, I was on home bed rest one month before the twins' birth. One word to describe that month?

Borgonizing.

Yep. Made that up. It's a combination of the words boring and agonizing because while you're bored out of your skull (I've cross-stitched every flat surface in the house and there's nothing else to do!!! And if I watch one more History channel special on the sinking of the Titanic I'm going to stab the TV with my scrapbook scissors!!!) you're also agonizing over the condition of you and your baby(ies) (Is my blood pressure going up?!? Has my cervix dilated any further?!? Did I just have a contraction?!?) The most exciting thing to happen during my month-long bed rest? Hurricane Katrina.

But, I was lucky. I got to chill at home, with my TV, my computer and wireless internet, my craft supplies, and my cats curled around my legs and feet. The women stuck in the High-Risk Perinatal Ward at Northside Hospital? Their lives suck. Luckily, there is a small group of volunteers called the Boredom Busters who just talk, listen, hang out, and get crafty with the ladies stuck on bed rest and I will now be part of this awesome group. Because who knew it? The uterus is a social organ.

You heard me. I found this out during my orientation. The uterus, like the heart and brain, is a social organ that responds to external emotional stimuli. If you're stressed out about being in the hospital for weeks and months on end? The pregnant uterus will begin contracting. If you're calm and chilling out with someone who gets what you're going through and has just offered to paint your toenails slut red? The pregnant uterus will remain still.

And if the husband/father-to-be forgets to bring your favorite rocky road ice cream to the hospital while you're lying in some damned-uncomfortable hospital bed with access to shitty cable television and every-two-hour blood pressure checks and the bitch nurse down the hall refuses to give you a catheter so you still have to waddle out of bed to take a leak trying like hell to beat peeing out all over your feet and floor and to top it all off the chick next door has wheelchair privileges and keeps coming over to brag about the roses her baby-daddy brought her last night? Well, then, your uterus just might reach out and choke him.

I'm just saying.