Tease!

So, for the past couple of weeks I have been enjoying the thrilling ride of false labor, which goes a little something like this:
Me: (sharp intake of breath) mph!
Aaron: What?! What's wrong?! What is it?!
Me: oooh...contraction.
Aaron: Does it hurt?
Me: yes.
Aaron: (writes down time)
(Repeat this scene at 10 minute intervals for 2 hours)
And then the contractions miraculously stop.
The doctors and nurses and nurse-practioners and pregnancy books all tell you to go to labor and delivery when your contractions are 5 minutes apart for 1 hour. And every time the contractions start I think to myself "this could be it!".
Up until now, of course. We've filled four notebook pages marking down contractions that are 10 minutes apart; one night we even had contractions that were 5 minutes apart for a half hour before they stopped altogether.
I've come to believe that my uterus is taunting me.
It is showing me that it is fully capable of contractions, but that it has no intentions of relieving me from all of those glorious late-pregnancy symptoms: back pain, heartburn, swelling (are those my toes or mini marshmallows?), ravenous hunger at 3am, frequent urination, and hemorrhoids (bastards!).
People who tell you that pregnancy is beautiful are lying.
Lying through their artificially whitened teeth.
Pregnancy is an awe-inspiring, miraculous thing, to be sure. But anything that involves hemorrhoids and heartburn cannot, in my book, be labeled as beautiful.
I have my 38-week check-up on Wednesday and I so desperately want to hear the words "You're at 4 centimeters, go check in".
Sometimes wishful thinking is the only kind I have.