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| 34 Weeks |
Over a month ago, Greg called me at work to tell me he had a high fever and needed to lie down. Two weeks later he was finally able to get through a day without being horizontal for most of it. He had a nasty case of strep throat. This was a tough time on us since I've become increasingly dependent on Greg as the hours pass*(1). During those two weeks, I did what any loving wife and mother-to-be would do: I quarantined him to the bedroom, slid meals under the door, and disinfected everything but the dog's face as often as possible. I developed a rash from hand sanitizer. Greg and I remember the moment we felt it was safe for us to kiss again on the lips—as good as our first, it felt new and adventurous. Pretty romantic, actually.
At the same time Greg was focused on healing, we had a bee infestation and a minor flood in the basement, many baby prepping responsibilities to fill, and a lot of paperwork to give the mortgage agent helping us to buy our first home*(2). I felt like a real mom. I worried over Greg's health*(3) and nursed him as best as I recall my own, kind mother doing for me when I was small with flu. I cleaned, and cleaned, and then cleaned some more. We ate homemade chicken soup until we choked on it. I was the MC of the circus—all with a smile on my face. It felt good and like a taste of the hard work ahead and also brought Greg and I closer together than ever*(4).
Things have changed. A little. I have changed. A lot.
This past Sunday, we returned from a Long Island weekend journey that started with Greg's 25th high school reunion and ended at a celebratory shower in honor of our progeny, hosted by my mother-in-law, and attended by wonderfully generous allies. There are boxes and piles of baby clothes in every corner of our home and I'm penning thank you notes like I'm doing homework between classes. It's a busy week in the land of pre-parenthood and I'm in a constant fog. I've slept very little, given up on housework, injured my foot to the point of limping, snapped at a friend, repeatedly monologued to the heavens cursing "the man" and "big banks", cried twice at work, dropped and left under furniture a variety of things from my numb, swollen, Shrek sized fingers, forgot I let the dog out, forgot I was boiling rice, forgot my own middle name, and made demands on Greg a blind, starving, flower-selling, polio-stricken, angel-faced, singing orphan wouldn't dare*(1).
Hard days make life interesting and I always learn something useful. Things aren't boring right now, that's for sure. I like a challenge*(2). I just hope I don't do anything I'd regret if I were in my right head. Even as I watch my body expand*(3) knowing "every bite of food should contain only essential elements", I cannot find a good reason to give up my new-found addiction to egg salad followed by vanilla ice cream. I'll deal with it later. They make girdles*(4).
*(1) Last night I was undressing for bed and couldn't bend over far enough to get my pants off over my toes.
*(2) Why not throw in another life-changing milestone?
*(3) I've never seen Greg so ill and lifeless—scary.
*(4) You've never loved until you've witnessed your half nude partner in various phases of bizarre behavior. (i.e., a grown, fever addled man stumbling over furniture while chasing bees out a door.)
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