So. Here we are. Week 5, Day 4 of Pregnancy No. 3.
I ought to have this whole process licked. Down. I should be cool, confident, and relaxed. And for the love of Pete I should be happy!
Truth is I’m a bit of a wreck. I guess there’s something to be said for being young and stupid–with my first 2 children I walked around without a care in the world, fully expecting everything to go right because, hey, it’s me, and why wouldn’t it? This time I have discovered what it means to worry…to truly worry…so much that I can’t sleep at night…that I choke every time I try to take a breath…that I feel like puking whenever I think about money, travelling, trying to fit 3 kids in the backseat of the car, trying to fit 3 kids into 2 small bedrooms, labor, and oh, did I mention money? And LABOR?
I’ve done this before. Don’t I know what to expect? What’s got me so freaked out this time? Maybe, just MAYBE, I am a grown-up.
Yes, a grown-up.
Only this knowledge doesn’t spark near as much excitement as I dreamed it would when I was 5.
As far as the pregnancy goes, things are still very good. Nothing out of the ordinary or of any concern going on. I’m sleepy, of course, and I’m getting migraines out the yin-yang, but that very well could be related to the endless turmoil my overactive brain is putting me through as discussed in the previous paragraphs. The only nausea I have stems from those migraines, so I can’t yet say "Curse you, Caleb!" Or can I?
And speaking of my husband, God bless his PRECIOUS HEART…He has warned me already that it’s entirely too early in the game to play the pregnancy card with ANYTHING.
"I’m hot," I will casually mention in the heat of the afternoon while just coming in from a walk in the blazing sun.
"Oh, now don’t even start that," He says.
At 4:00 my batteries start to die. I will sit on the couch and sigh and yawn, and he will inevitably ask me (usually in annoyance) "What’s the matter with you?" which is very quickly followed by a shift in tone and a sympathetic "Are you alright?"
"I’m just tired, babe. Thanks."
"Oh. Okay. So, what’s for dinner?"
I think he fails to understand that when I say "tired" what I mean is "I cannot possibly keep my eyes open for another second. I’ve never been more tired in my life. My boobs are killing me. It feels like someone is trying to rip them off of me every hour of every day. Every part of my body is achy and sluggish . I don’t want to eat, let alone cook. I don’t want to move ever again. I would go to bed right now and wake up at noon tomorrow if I could."
But that still would not get the point across. I’m thinking about comparing my sleepiness to the feeling he must get whenever he watches TV after 9:00 at night. He CANNOT STAY AWAKE to save his life. Surely he could understand that.
Wow. Did I make it through that entire blog without writing any cuss words? Impressive…I really must be a grown-up. Don’t worry. I won’t let it happen again. Give me a few more weeks and I’ll have an entry full of them.