Item the First: Thank you, so very much, for all the kind words you gave me this week. Things do tend to look differently after bourbon, or in the morning, or in the morning after bourbon, which in this case is an air-quotes “in the morning” because it pretty much took until today for things to look upward enough to be convincing.
I think it’s important to say so when things are not good, just as it’s important to say so when things are good. More than one IRL person told me this week they were totally surprised that I ever felt overwhelmed and inadequate. Y’all. Really. I’m just a mama over here. I might be a little more quirky than the mama over there and a little more straight-laced than the mama in the other direction, but we’re all just mamas, right?
And when you said, You’re not alone, or I get this, or I know how this feels, you weren’t just saying it to me. You said it to other hurting mamas who needed to hear it just as badly as I.
So thank you.
Item the Second: In addition to having a bad case of The Whatever That Was Last Weekend, I found myself having a case of the _____________ which led me to schedule an appointment with my midwife, who also performs regular vaginal maintenance procedures. (And no, the correct answer to the fill-in-the-blank is not BABY IN MAH BELLAH, so pipe down over there.) I just really don’t think that you need a clear description of All Things Southerly, so I’m just going to be a little vague, and you’re going to be happy about it.
This was not my yearly exam, because, well, I didn’t actually have a yearly exam in 2009, because I was doing something else that did not involve duck-billed anythings in my places. Except it turns out that when you plan to attend the gyno only when you have a case of the ______________, she will take advantage of you when you are scantily clad and in a relatively immobile position to swish as many swab-ish things as she can in order to secretly conduct your yearly exam. Big trickster.
But then? Good news, people! She upped my meds. For those of you who don’t know, I flat out lost my shit when I was six months pregnant with Elliott, and started taking a low-dose SSRI. Turns out that flat out losing your shit when you’re pregnant is an actual, serious medical condition called antenatal depression. Time magazine wrote a really great piece about it last February.
But then? Bad news, people! She told me I’m fat. No, she didn’t say the Eff word exactly (or the other eff word), but she said something about 20, no 25 pounds and so really speedy quick I stuck my fingers in my ears and sang the Smurfs theme song. Classy, I know. I can’t even help it!
Item the Third: Christmas was nice. Hope you had a lovely Christmas, too, if you’re a Christmas-er, or that last Saturday was a nice, plain old boring day if you’re not a Christmas-er. And thank you to my internetty pals who sent us cards. The short people would open them and say Who are *those* people? and we’d say Blog people, and eventually the short people would open a card, have a look, and say something ridiculous about Pretend People From The Computer. Except for WRH‘s card… they jumped up and down and shouted about The Well-Read Son and The Well-Read Daughter and demanded to return to Philadeedelphia at once. Heh. Not with that attitude, missy. And mistery. Mystery… Oh never mind.
Item the Fourth: It is bloody cold in my house. This whole BEING CHEAP thing is not for me. Thank GOD for my boyfriend, Colin Firth. I pop that fella in the microwave for three minutes, and he warms me down to the tips of my toes. Sometimes he warms only my toes, if I make him sit on my feet. And you know what? He’s okay with that. And he always cuddles and never asks for anything more, no matter how hot he gets. You should totally get your own Colin Firth. (Spoiler alert: shameless plug.)
Item the Fifth: Laptop or iPod Touch. Discuss.
Item the Sixth and Final: Plans for New Years’ Eve are as follows: Feed the children dinner. Make some popcorn in our new Whirly-Pop thingy. Pop a movie in the DVD player and cuddle in bed with the short people whilst The Mister mixes some random bar band and earns a pocket o’cash. Bed by nine. I know. We’re terribly exciting.