How Not to Pack a Hospital Bag

“Did you pack your bag?”

“Nah, not yet. But I will.”

“When?”

“Soon. It will only take ten minutes.”

“So just do it.”

“Yeah.”

This conversation happens about once a day between my husband and me. It’s not that he’s being particular. He does have a point. After all, I could deliver at pretty much any time now.

And I think that, really, he doesn’t want to be stuck with some made-for-TV scenario where I’m doubled over in labor and barking a series of packing list items at him in the middle of the night, while not waking up our children or neighbors. Which is fair. He will want to save his focus for testing the limits of our new minivan while getting me to the hospital. I mean, we were told it was a performance vehicle, so what better way to find out?

{Might I say that I am kind of loving the minivan? Sure, it rides nice. But I really am infatuated by the prospect of having a new place to put my coffee cup every day this week. It’s also fascinating to drive a car that clearly has more storage space than my first Manhattan apartment. And, really, I’m so relieved that my kids have a comfortable environment in which they can recline after an arduous day of play. But don’t worry, this isn’t a sponsored post.}

Anyway, the packing. See how distracted I get when I think about getting that bag together?

Maybe if I approach it differently, I’ll be motivated to get it done. Like packing for a little vacation.

After all, I get to sleep alone in a room. In a bed with multiple recline options. Also:

• I get to have full reign over the remote control.
• I can push a button and someone will come to ask what I need.
• I will have Wi-Fi.
• And pain medication on demand.
• I won’t be allowed to do any household chores.
• I even get a massage and dinner included with my stay. All that’s missing are the drink tickets for the all-inclusive bar.

So I’m totally packing those back issues of Us Weekly and People that I never got to read. And my most comfortable flip flops. My head phones. Perhaps a good book, too.

Wow, this is starting to sound fabulous, isn’t it? Do I need my passport?

I can’t forget my sunscreen, because I never go on vacation without it. OH, WAIT. I won’t be outside. At all.

I will be inside. Birthing a human. And while that will be the clear highlight of my stay, it probably won’t feel like a vacation so much — at least  from a comfort and relaxation perspective.

After I meet my baby and then sequester my husband in a closet until he finds a name he likes, that means I’ll have a tiny new roommate. One who will probably want to stay up all night during my vacation. That’s OK. We can watch bad TV together at 1, 2, 3, 5 and 6 am.

But then, in between those intervals, the nurses will wake me up approximately every 27 minutes, just as I approach REM mode. Again, not so vacation-ish.

Also, my meals will arrive on a tray and its contents will jiggle in an unnatural state.

Oh, and those backless gowns. They’re not as much “Saturday-night-wedding-backless” as “Is-my-post-partum-bottom-half-hanging-out-backless.”

See, this is not productive. Who would be motivated to pack for this? Forget the magazines and the book. Now I’m all hung up on nursing supplies and hospital admission forms and contact lists and flip flops for the shower.

But still. I get to take home the best souvenir ever.

As long as I remember to pack an outfit and bring a car seat for my new roommate.

Today. I will pack today. Later today. Probably.