December!Posted: December 1, 2012
Before we celebrate the Decemberiness of December, here is a brief yarn to help you understand why bedrest sucks. This morning, in an effort to be a contributing member of my household, I did two things. I made our holiday card online, and I composed a lengthy email to Herr Husband detailing all the items we needed at, you guessed it, Target. Somehow, I clicked away from the card and lost all of the cropping and tweaking and composing I had done. Feeling crabby at myself and the universe, I turned my attention to the list. A lot of thought went into it, and it took me a long time to compose. Somehow, when I mailed it from my drafts folder, I managed to erase all but the first three items. So I sent him basically nothing. And then I cried, because the only helpful things I’d done today had been erased. I’m not even kidding. I cried about it.
Yes, you can blame hormones. But really, it’s about how useless one feels on bed rest, how absent. Incompetent cervix? Try incompetent human being. Have you ever video chatted into a social gathering where everyone else is interacting in the actual world? It’s nice to be included, but you feel like a disembodied robot head? Well that’s how I feel. Yeah, I’m from the future, and it’s totally awesome, but I’m not really here.
I recovered, of course, and I know there are about nine-hundred-gazillion more acute tragedies out there, but I thought it was a useful anecdote for those who think bedrest sounds fun.
Now, onto actual fun: Herr Husband acquired footie jammies for himself today (I encouraged him to “Treat Yo Self!”). And that he did. The results speak for themselves.
I’m excited for December because it’s the month before my baby is due! Granted, she’s not due until the very last day of January, but still. Das Big Boy was due in January as well, and we never made it out of October. So it feels closer even if the actual gestational time difference between the two so far is only three weeks and change.
I should point out that Wee Mädchen’s January thirty-first due date (I’m trying out new names here…) is the day before my own birthday. My thirty-fifth birthday, to be exact. This is noteworthy because it means I dodged the diagnosis of Advanced Maternal Age, fka Geriatric Pregnancy, by one day. A moral victory, if nothing else. It is also significant because before I became a preemie-mom risk yet again, I had hoped she would be born on my birthday. I mean, I still hope it, but I also just hope we’ll make it to thirty-two weeks, or thirty-four weeks, or January. There’s too much big hope standing in the way of my silly little hope. Other people didn’t understand why I’d want to share my birthday. But having a healthy, full-term baby–a day late baby!–would be the best birthday present ever!
All righty then. Whenever we finish reading Interrupting Chicken, currently #1 on the bedtime story charts, Das Big Boy says, “Goodnight, Papa. Goodnight, Chicken.” So I bid you the same.