Friday, April 2, 2010

29 Wks, 4 Days: Random Musings From the One Behind the Belly

I've been pondering some things lately. Silly things. Completely random things. Hmmmmm...

Why is it that...

If you ask a pregnant woman how far along she is, you will, in that answer, be able to determine how problematic her pregnancy has been? Think I'm crazy? Try it! For a nice, easy pregnancy, she will reply in months: "I'm 6 months." or "I'm 9 months."
If it is slightly problematic, she'll reply in weeks.
If it has been sheer hell, she knows! Down to the day. And she counts down her weeks. And knows exactly when she has turned to the next week. And how far along her baby is measuring.
Don't believe me? Try it and see!

Men cannot paint toenails? I haven't even asked J to do this for this pregnancy. I've learned. When I was pregnant with E, he tried. It ended up as "fun with polish". I was bored and on bedrest, so he let me paint his nails the most obnoxious pink color. Then hid the nail polish remover from him for half a day. It was fun. My Marine husband and his hot pink nails. But then a few years later, I had my knee reconstructed and couldn't bend my left leg. J had learned his lesson, but still tried to paint my toes on the left foot. Oh. My. God. Yes, his heart was in the right place. But I could have gotten the same effect by pouring the bottle of polish over my toes. Which is problematic. I have ugly feet. And it is officially flip-flop weather, and I will not wear anything toe-revealing without my toenails painted. Picture Barney Rubble's feet. That's me.

My husband cannot clean a house? He was a Marine, for crying out loud. He had literally years where he would be told to "clean the head!". But yesterday, I got up from my encampment in the bedroom and found out just how bad my house looked and freaked out. And gagged when I saw the bathroom. Which started an argument. As in he got smart, saying I expect him to spring clean everyday. I don't consider this stuff spring cleaning. I consider it basic hygiene. Maybe he thought he could get away with it. I am, after all, in no position to argue.

That no matter how jerky my husband can be, and make me think he just doesn't get it, he does something unbelievably sweet for me to turn it all around? Last week, I needed a bath. When I take a shwer, my pump goes in this little waterproof pouch that hangs on the shower head. So I am literally tethered to a wall and cannot contort myself into the position necessary to shave my legs. Once in a while, the need to change my infusion site will coincide with the need to shave, but not all of the time. And the only way I can sit submerged in water is when I am free from the pesky little catheter. So last week, J helps me get into a tub with my legs hanging over the side, and he shaved my legs for me. Of course this could have been completely self-serving on his part. As in he didn't want a wife who looked like Sasquatch. Or Chewbacca. But either way, no matter what he had done that day, I was reminded how much I love my husband.

I have a new addiction to YouTube? I did this years ago when J was planning on reenlisting. I would search and find videos of husbands leaving for war and watch and cry and fret when he didn't know I was even awake. Now I do the same thing, only I search for preemie videos. And I find and watch some of the most horrific stuff and cry. Sometimes it can have the opposite effect: it's uplifting and encouraging. But regardless, I cry. Why? I compare it to passing a gruesome car accident. You know you shouldn't want to look, and you know you will not like what you see, but something pulls your eyes in that direction anyway. It's not even like I need to educate myself. I know from my professional experience what I am dealing with in having a potential preemie. But I do it anyway. Maybe it is my subconscious way of reminding myself of why I want to endure this hell at a time when I just want it to be over already. My motivation to keep squeezing "just one more week" out of the pregnancy.

No comments:

Post a Comment