After all, I'm home on maternity leave. All that free time....(snort).
It's hard to believe that little Hambone is 9 months old today. He's already pulling himself to standing and sports an impressive 9 teeth.
Things are busy - the Christmas prep season is never my favourite, and add to it Hamlet will be turning 6 (!!) on the 13th. Hamlet loves.loves.loves being a big brother and it's great to see the boys together. Hambone lights up when he hears his brother's voice and laughs out loud when Hamlet makes faces for him or tickles his toes.
I can't say that this is a very insightful post - I could talk about the isolation of maternity leave, or the love/hate feelings I'm experiencing about going back to work at the end of January, but I think I'll start just here. Just showing my boys and saying Merry Holidays to everyone. :)
The remainder of February and early March passed in a haze of interrupted sleep, hip and back pain, sporadic weeping, assorted rants and the general disgruntlement of late pregnancy.
(The skin on my stomach was stretched so tight I swear if I had bumped into a table-edge, baby would have exploded out like candy from a pinata.)
When I have a little more time and energy, I'll post the play by play from Hamlet2's labour and delivery (like - "contractions start 3 minutes apart! funtimes!"), but for now here are the stats and gratuitous picture.
March 9th 11:44 am Another lad to add to the team 9lb 1/4 oz, 21 inches long Hamlet is thrilled to bits to be a big brother.
I had scheduled my last day of work to be February 25th - a nice little break for a March 17th due date.
Only problem - I was beginning to think I didn't have enough in the tank to get me there. Correction: I KNEW I didn't have enough.
Last doctor's appointment, she didn't like my blood pressure, but it had settled to a nice level within the span of my visit. She asked me about work, and I told her about fatigue and back/hip pain and just feeling weighted-down and spread too thin.
On Friday, I told her to stick a fork in me. Done. My blood pressure was fine, but Hammybaby2's heartrate was elevated, which shunted me to fetal assessment at another facility. Everything turned out fine (Hammybaby2 is simply crazyactive and my doctor caught two movement spikes with her in-office monitor), but it was just the final thing. Well, that and they moved my due date up to March 12th. :)
Did some work over the weekend, cleaned things up in my office yesterday, and here I am. First morning - no laptop, no phone.
I feel lighter.
Now I have time to rest up for the main event. Time to feel ready.
Time for a cup of coffee and a book. And naps. Many naps.
A certain, puffed-up manager at my workplace has become even more puffed-up since they added "VP" to his title just before Christmas.
We are presently moving people and desks around the building so that this jackhole can leave a perfectly nice piece of real estate to move his office closer to the "big dogs". Today, he had the audacity to tell another manager that he is moving one of my people (without telling me)because he wants my guy to be closer to the operations staff. I am going to have to explain that this isn't his decision to make; definitely not the premise he can use to make it.
I was explaining the situation to Mr. Hammy, who succinctly summed it up saying: "So, he's really feeling his VP-ness."
"Yes!" I agreed happily, "I am dealing with a VPenis!"
But can I say how tired I am of the tired? "How are you?" people ask. And I reply the inevitable reply, wishing the truth were something different. Or at least more interesting.
I have completed 31 weeks of pregnancy. I am healthy; baby is healthy (kicking right now, thank you very much Momma). I know my March 17th due date is within spitting distance, but I sometimes find myself wondering how does one get there from here? Measuring the fuel in my tank and finding a shortfall in what will be required. I know there is little choice in this path; I am certainly committed to the end point - not like I can jump off this particular treadmill and say, "Enough for now. I'll come back to this later."
But doubt and fatigue weigh on me and pull me down. I hang my head and catalogue my woes. My patience and tolerence (never stellar) are pared to slivers and I try not to give myself excuses for lagging responses and bad behaviour.
Focus on this day, this person, I tell myself. One step more. There is nothing wrong with you, with us - these things will pass, hold tight.
I am 23ish weeks pregnant; second trimester almost at an end. Three months to go - the time is counting down and that should make me happy, but it seems like forever to go.
Maybe it's just my faulty memory playing tricks on me - was it like this last time? Did I feel so frustrated and incapacitated at barely six months? I remember the last month or so with Hamlet, feeling so tired and wretched, unable to catch my breath or find a comfortable position.
Just like now. At six months. Ish.
The good news is that I've managed to cow and browbeat most of the general population who seemed bent on enforcing happiness upon me. "This should be the happiest time in your life!"
Seriously, anyone who says this should be a) punched, and 2) required to leave the house more. Let's see: constant heartburn, bleeding gums, nosebleeds, breathlessness, inability to sleep due to NO COMFORTABLE POSITION TO BE FOUND, incessant peeing, sobriety. Doesn't that just sound like a ball?
Joyful pregnancy is a myth that women like to perpetuate on each other. I guess that some of us are just better at confusing a desired end with a trying process; "Oh, I just wanted a baby so badly that the whole thing was worth it!". I can buy that everyone is looking forward to having a baby, but not the literal having of the baby. Labour also blows ladies; don't let anyone tell you different. At no other time in your life does a giant needle to the spine sound like a good idea.
And don't even start with the natural childbirth tut-tutting or I will punch you in the throat.
I just want the baby to get here so we can do baby things and be a family - this gestating shit is for the birds.