Yesterday, I kept thinking that I needed to apologize. I have been nothing but one long bitch for two weeks. My husband with the stomach flu, being all husband-y about his nausea. I admit that having terrible morning sickness for at least two pregnancies (this one hasn't been nearly as bad, I admit) has made me nigh-invulnerable to calls for sympathy in that realm. Then his surgery. Then Bea's sickness, my constant blood pressure crap, MFMs, obs, my own puking, sore feet, lack of naps, no crappy television to fall into. I'm sorry. So, yesterday, I was thinking, I need to apologize, but then I spent all day in the emergency room because my husband's pain level was uncontrollable. So, yeah...even that got apology and call to stop my damn whining got trumped by another reason to whine.
So, I am going to do it today. Sorry for whining. Sorry for bitching. And thank you for listening. For your comments and gestures of kindness...Sarah sent us an amazing package of Grandma's Chicken Matzo Ball Soup. Holy crap. Talk about some good medicine. A day of not cooking while nauseated is a true gift. And my beautiful, dear friend (and uber artist extraordinaire) Sara Lee sent us flowers. A true bright spot on the week. And my lovely friend Dani sent us a Netflix gift certificate, which is awesome, to help entertain Bea while I nap. Can you ask for anything more than a nap when you need one? Everyone has sent massive love and emails and comments. Thank you. Your kindness makes me get all teary. Verklempt. You know.This hard time is much easier because of your support. Thank you.
It will pass. All of this shall pass. Sometimes I wonder if I will look back on this time as somehow beautiful--here we are in self-imposed quarantine and exile. Clinging desperately to each other and our dark, shade-drawn house. I need to stop whining like a puppy at the door, and start learning to play with my inside toys. Sometimes I find myself looking around at these people I love and thinking how lucky I am despite their grumpiness and pukiness and their everything. They are my beautiful loves. And I get to see them twenty-four hours for the next few weeks, and hear their little voices say they love me.
Today, Beatrice has been eating, finally, after a week. She has eaten a bagel and cream cheese, eggs, sausage, two glasses of orange juice, a peanut butter and honey sandwich on 15 grain bread, a peanut butter chocolate egg, two cookies and a banana. She is like the very hungry caterpillar. I have been trying to get her to eat one large green leaf. It doesn't look promising.
Anyway, I'm trying to take a more empowering approach to this time. Clear my mind and resolve: I am going to buy a damn mindless book despite my self-imposed book buying ban, because I cannot keep reading Widow for a Year by John Irving. I am officially here on out through my pregnancy going to not read any more books with dead children in it. I am going to trust and enjoy the baby's kicks and not imagine they are seizures, or final kicks of help, or anything doomsday. I am also going to nap and leave Bea in her father's drugged out hair whether he likes it or not. I am not going to work continually for hours on end until I realize that I have been having a contraction for an hour straight. I am also going to order out for dinner tonight. WHATEVER I WANT. I am putting my feet up, and allow Bea to have as many popsicles as she can reach in the freezer. I am not going to bitch anymore about how fucking hard this is, because it just is, and I am annoying myself with all the whining. The Olympics will be on twenty-four hours. I am going to take a bath and not allow any little body, no matter how many kisses she says she wants to give the new baby, to join me. I am going to make afternoon coffee if I need it. I am going to dust. I am going to buy some peeps next time I venture out of the house, because I am pregnant, and Easter candy is out, and peeps make the world go around.
I am going to do all of that, except the dust part.