Went to a birthday party for my cousin's daughter today (though, let's be honest, I just call her a niece). It was nice talking to people who have young children and who are excited for me to have this baby, but a number of them have read this blog and added, "You seem miserable."
It's hard to describe. You see the worst of me on this blog. You read what I write at the end of the day when I'm tired, sore, ache-y, and scared. You're reading updates from when I've spent hours thinking about what goes into a C-section, when I've been experiencing shooting pains up and down various body parts for hours, and when I think eating something will make me sick yet all I can think about is eating.
For instance, yesterday afternoon, I spent some time with my mom. She let me sleep for a few hours in the morning. We went to Gymboree and picked up several cute items for N and the new baby. I spent several hours cooing over a particularly adorable shirt and bloomer set for the summer. I held N like he was my darling little baby boy and he snuggled his face into mine and told me he loved me. However, that's not when I blog.
Several hours later, I was ready to die. The baby was pushing and stretching and moving in ways that were uncomfortable. I had stupidly, stupidly, stupidly put only a single leg up while watching a movie and all the blood had pooled in my other leg leading one leg to be larger than the other and then I had a panic attack about a possible blood clot. I felt "downward pressure" which made me wonder if I'd even make it to mid-February before delivering. I had spent ten minutes crying thinking about getting an IV that seems inevitable.
And that is normally when I blog. When I'm scared and miserable and uncomfortable.
I do want you to know that I'm not always like that. I spend time with my husband and he rubs my back or lets me sit in a bathtub for hours while he watches N and cooks. That makes me happy. I visit friends or they visit and we knit or chat or eat a meal together and that makes me happy. I think of the times when my baby will be wearing the same little clothing that N wore, and I'm happy. I read a good back and I'm happy. I get a gigantic impulsive kiss and snuggle from N and I'm happy. I wash newborn clothing with Dreft and the scent makes me smile. My mom makes me pizzelles and we eat them over tea while N plays with toys at my mom's house and I feel good.
And then, at the end of the night, when I'm in pain and I can't breathe and I cough so hard that I think I'm going to cough up one of my lungs, and I can't sleep because this insomnia is killing me, killing me, killing me, I end up writing entries that seem so down.
At the end of the day, I'm a day closer to the end of this pregnancy and to meeting a new little girl that I'll fall in love with. I basically chant to myself, "Only x amount of time left." I'm still horrified by the idea of the C-section, but every night of pain and aches makes it seem a little less horrifying because I know that at the end of the C-section tunnel is the light of being able to go to sleep on my stomach and of not aching thoroughly for months on end and of being able to eat what I damned well want to eat and of breathing without issue and of going for hours without a bathroom break.
When I write to you then, if you've just joined me, you'll probably wonder who the hell the cheerful lady writing this blog is. It's me, but just the better side of me that you can't currently see.