I had just entirely more fun than I could handle yesterday. By ten o’clock last night, I was shaking and feverish, and falling asleep sitting up, stumbling around and wimpering.
Would you like to know what incredibly strenuous activities I participated in?
WELL. I went to Whole Foods with my mamma and Scout*, where I proceeded to actually WALK down several aisles, and move small items from their places on the shelves to my cart.
Then we stopped by the school where I exhausted myself by moving several piles of papers into more orderly stacks, wiping down some desks with a Chlorox wipe, and watching my mother vacuum and re-arrange the desks under my direction. I know! I shouldn’t push myself so!
Next I had part of a pizza from Schlotzkys, which I promptly threw up. My vomit-free streak starts over now! And then I had a nap.
THEN I really went overboard; I went to a friend’s house and sobbed my eyes out for two hours watching P.S. I Love You. Which I have been putting off even though I think it looks great, because some of my greatest and most anxiety-attack inducing fears are embodied in that movie. But it was truly a wonderful movie, just exhausting.
Next was some MORE strenuous sitting, while we went to watch a soccer game outside and eat ice cream and brownies.
By the time I got to Kanga’s house, I needed two Tylenol and a cold washcloth over my eyes for fifteen minutes to recover.
Halfway through a game of Spades, I had to give up the ghost. And I love me some Spades. I fell sound asleep at Kanga’s table (more comfortable than it sounds) until Joey finished cleaning up some mess he had made.
I believe I got pregnant about two hundred years late. Clearly I belong in a four-poster bed for nine months, careful not to tire myself out with too much needlepoint or correspondence. I am quite obviously a very delicate Victorian hothouse blossom.
I just better get over it before school starts. Because it is really and truly irritating the spit out of me to get over-tired so easily.
In non-crabby news, we finally heard the elusive baby heartbeat! Not yesterday, though. Last weekend actually. I just couldn’t manage to work up the energy to tippity-tap my fragile fingers over the keyboard until recently. This really should have been a Big Important Post Of Its Own, shouldn’t it?
O my child, you are only the size of a very large lemon, and already I begin the long journey of Failing Motherhood.
Actually, I started that probably when you were more the size of a grape. I’m sorry!! The prenatal vitamins make me hurl! I TRY to take them, but how long do they really stay in there, anyway? And also, I completely forgot I couldn’t have hot dogs until mine was already on my plate, blackened to perfection, smothered in ridiculous amounts of mustard and relish, looking soooo delicious. I ate two. Go ahead and sign up for therapy, I UNDERSTAND.
So. Heartbeat. Yes.
It still took FOUR tries before we heard the darn thing. The midwife actually had to internally push my uterus up (closer to the surface, I assume) in order to get a clear thumpity-thump-thump. Which was a huge relief, because she said she needed to do this in order to make sure the baby hadn’t “stopped growing”. Which didn’t fool me for a minute, I KNEW that what she meant was “stopped living”. So there has never, ever been a more comforting sound in the whole world. And then we sat and listened for a minute, and it was all very strange because for the first time, I really BELIEVED that all this bizarre, mad-science-sounding, tadpole-alien-lizard- looking information that I’ve been reading about? Is actually happening. Inside my body. There’s a PERSON in there.
So it’s cool that I’m a delicate blossom who can’t stay awake for longer than four hours at a time, and that four days without vomiting is a major accomplishment, and that the very thought of chicken makes me want to die, and that I’m so hormonal that I have no problem scolding strangers who litter or get in my personal space, but I will cry if you look like you might be THINKING that my shoes don’t match my outfit.
It is so worth it.
*Scout is my new name for my little baby sister. From To Kill A Mockingbird? Because she is very small and fiesty, and at the tender age of three and a half (we can’t get her to say ‘almost four’ no matter what we do) she is quite literally teaching herself to read. Also because every time I reference To Kill A Mockingbird I get a free pass to think about Gregory Peck in the movie. And he is beautiful. We watched Roman Holiday a few days ago, and I may have remarked to my mother that I don’t think it would have been possible to have lived during his screen career and not been madly in love with him. Not like eye candy, no. Like love.
Need I say more? Even though I just found out his first name was Eldred and that he played Captain Ahab, and I REALLY HATE Moby Dick. It doesn’t matter!
