Damn you, John Braxton Hicks

They say every pregnancy is different, and we are no exception.  Anna was a laid-back baby even in the womb...the most she ever got really excited about in there was a root beer float, and we pretty much had to kick her out (induce) when she was 11 days past her due date.  Buzzy-bee, on the other hand, seems determined to greet this big world ASAP.  Her daily, normal activity levels rival Anna's best root beer float days and there are times that I (and anyone else in the room) watch my belly contort and just wait for a scene from Alien to replay itself.

Also new with this pregnancy are contractions...which I literally didn't have at all with Anna until we induced.  With BB, this is an hourly occurrence, brought on by nearly anything (standing, walking, sitting :P).  This means that since about 35 weeks I started dilating and have pretty much been on bed rest and unable to do much other than sit...and really wish that I had just painted the darn walls in the living room this summer so I wouldn't now be sitting here staring at them and the huge swatches of different colored paint I put up all over them (my logic being that if I made the swatches huge, they would annoy me enough that I would get the painting done...at least part of that logic was sound).

Anyway, all this "fun" has really made me wonder what John Braxton Hicks was thinking, naming these little uterine miseries after himself.  What kind of sick person wants every pregnant woman in the foreseeable future to shake her formidable, hormone-fueled fist at him?  Talk about a legacy to leave to his (possibly non-existent) children...I know if I ever chance to meet a Braxton Hicks descendant, I will happily thwack he or she over the head with my diaper bag before going back to silently cursing his ostentatious name.  Thanks, sir.  Thanks a lot.  At least, if nothing else, you are notorious.