a two half-caf more-milk-than-coffee iced coffees sort of day

I just got back from taking Wes to the airport for a weekend with Bill in Austin. I am ridiculously, hormonally sad about his being gone for 2 days. I hate that aspect of pregnancy, I must say. I really used to revel in time alone. I know I’ve said this before. It is yet another thing that baffles me about myself lately, right up there with my elephantine ankles and heartburn that occurs after eating precisely nothing.

She is going to be updating herself, probably today, so I won’t go into any detail. But for any who were concerned, just wanted to share that I called Jennifer and she is doing OK and the babies are here and big and healthy. Naturally, the whole story is full of drama and medical mysteries…..

I didn’t post yesterday because I was extremely busy at work and exhausted and grumpy besides. We had my sister’s pug puppy Thursday night and because her little life is in chaos and upheaval and because playing with Lexie or her toys is such an amusing use of her time or perhaps to assist us in training for an infant, she chose not to sleep. Literally, never more than 45 minutes without whining or crying or barking or insisting that she had to get out of her crate to pace and play. Sometimes she’d cry herself out and sleep for half an hour. Sometimes not. We’d last almost an hour of "cry it out" before I would start worrying about the neighbors and get up or make Wes do so. I hope this doesn’t mean anything about my abilities to CIO with TK, if we ever choose to do so. I suppose it does at least bode well that my concern was less for the puppy and more for the neighbors…. Ha. Heartless to the core.

I am not sure what I will do with myself this weekend. Try to quilt. Try to eat iron-rich foods. Try to keep my feet elevated.

The ticker says baby has hit the two pound mark, but every book I own plus the feeling of him trampolining on my bladder assures me that he is about 2.5 pounds now. I can’t believe there are only 11 weeks to go and that it has never stopped feeling surreal and tenuous the entire time.

There is so much I wish I could explain about how it feels to be pregnant, how surprised and disappointed and sometimes (thankfully) awe-filled I have been. How foolish I sometimes feel for not realizing how hard it would be on my lame-ass body. How much bitterness I feel at my body for not holding up better, for falling apart and hurting so fricking much all the time (I am hoping there will be some redemption in delivery, some feeling of accomplishment that I created a full-fledged human – I try to dredge this up but I feel so separate from him – I am glad he is doing so well but it feels, sometimes, like it has nothing to do with me since I am not doing so well myself). How I feel in public when people give me seats or hold doors a little longer, how I feel, still, like there must be some mistake. How I sometimes catch myself looking at my reflection in a store window and having that old, familiar, safe feeling of disgust and jealousy and anger that I used to feel when I saw a pregnant woman and I was not one. As though I am jealous of myself. As though I am looking at myself from somewhere else and I am not me at all.