On Friday afternoon, at my non-stress test, the contraction monitor picked up a bunch of low-grade contractions that I couldn’t even feel. Since they were a couple minutes apart, my nurse told me to take it easy for the next few days and stay off my feet. No errands. No chores. No cooking. No cleaning.

Glorious, I thought. I can lay in bed and read and write and look at magazines.

And the first day was glorious. My husband and kids were camping, so I had the house to myself. I finished a book, started another, caught up on my blog reading, watched two episodes of Lark Rise to Candleford, and wrote a number of posts for after the babies are born when I’ll be too sleep-deprived and hormone-ridden to string a coherent sentence together.

But by Sunday morning, I was so stir-crazy that I went to the first service at my church. When left to my own devices, I never go to the first service. It requires getting up and getting ready by 8:30, and I’d rather lay in bed and read or journal. But I’d spent all day Saturday reading and journaling, and I was sick of being in bed. So up I got, and gladly. When I got home, I was very good, and went and lay down for the rest of the day.

On Monday I started feeling contractions every seven minutes or so and spent two hours in triage being monitored. I wasn’t in labor. Hallelujah!

On Tuesday, when I went in for my non-stress test, my contractions were coming three to seven minutes apart and Baby A (that’s what they call the presenting baby, the one who will be born first) had descended into my birth canal. I spent six hours at the hospital, being monitored to make sure I wasn’t in active labor. I wasn’t. But the doc said to continue to stay off my feet.

So far this week, my mother-in-law and five friends have come to clean my house, watch my kids, cook my meals, do my dishes and laundry, and keep me company; and my parents drove up from California to stay with us in case I do go into active labor soon. I am grateful beyond words.

I am also heartily sick of being waited on hand-and-foot, like some engorged and pulsating queen bee, who lies around gestating while her drones do all the work. It’s humbling, to say the least. Sometimes it feels humiliating.

Last night, I went to a going away party for some friends, where I sat in a reclining chair with my feet up while my friends graciously brought me food and drink, made sure my kids were fed, and kept an eye on them while they played in the yard and the house. I felt very loved and cared for. I also felt like a total energy-sucking schmuck. After all, it wasn’t my party.

I am sure there is a lesson for me in all this, probably several lessons.

I’m just not sure what they are.