Hi, internets. It’s 5am. I’ve been up since 3:30 or so, when I decided I wasn’t sleeping well in the Bean’s room and that I should return to my own, since he’d recovered from the coughing and crying that brought me to him at some earlier point, when the progesterone was still fresh enough in my system that I was foggy headed. I’ve been enjoying very much the solid sleep the crinone has provided me for the past several days, but I guess all good things come to an end.
Partly, I am up because I decided to go balls-out with my last night of sanctioned acid reducer and proton pump inhibitor use: I made spaghetti and meatballs with — gasp — tomato sauce, AND I had two ounces of white wine. I am a maniac, it’s true, and guess what? Stomach unhappy. I swear things have never been the same since the Bean’s second trimester. I used to be able to eat iron nails, which, mark my words, will one of these days be the new foodie trend, faux-rustic edition. Or maybe it’ll be more like a molecular gastronomy thing, with lots of chatter about the ideal extent of oxidation in the crust. Think seared tuna.
(Sugar and I had a sublime seared tuna dish at the neighborhood Japanese restaurant on our date, with a wasabi and miso kind of sauce and lots of radish sprouts. I may be dating myself here, but I miss seared tuna as a food trend. Those were tasty days.)
Partly, I am up for reasons that are likely obvious to you. I am nervous. About all possible outcomes.
I dreamt last night it was beta day, only the test was that I had to lie back on an exam table and slide a DVD into my vagina. Which was tricky work. The DVD somehow was also a video camera that made a cartoon movie of the interior of my vagina and uterus, which mostly consisted of parts of my body mocking me. I felt foolish, because I had thought I could be pregnant, but in retrospect realized I’d never felt pregnant in the least. I felt ridiculous for being surprised. When I woke up, it took a while to remember that I my not currently feeling pregnant is not an omen of anything, since I am, after all, definitively not currently pregnant.
At other times, I grind my teeth over fear of a miscarriage, which my mind transmutes into the inevitability of one.
And the there is the possibility of a Real Live Baby, which, while obviously the preferred outcome, is not without its ability to provoke anxiety. Sleep is, of course, a major worry. If we do get another baby, is there any way to order the kind that sleeps? There is also the matter of our tiny, crowded apartment, which works better for three of us than it has any right to, but four…. The babysitter for our date night (your ex, starhillgirl), who i assume either isn’t nosy or doesn’t know what the huge packages crinone rubbing shoulders with the breadbox might portend, spent a while telling us how crazy the household she’d just worked in was, the one with a five-year-old and a two-year-old in a space our size. You know, the age spacing we’re presently lining ourselves up for.
In truth the apartment is awfully small, especially given that neither Sugar nor I are willing to compromise on the activities that interest us in order to avoid storing bulky things. No way to live, in my opinion, even if the alternative is clutter. We had hoped to be in bigger place before the Bean was born or at least before he was such a person, but that’s not the way things have gone. Our neighborhood is more trendy by the day — a cheese shop just opened around the corner, on a street whose contributions to the economy at the time we moved here we strictly, um, tax-free. A cheese shop. I don’t think we’ll be convincing the landlord not to raise the rent this year. Sugar has been in the running for a significant promotion for ages, as the hiring of the new position keeps waiting on the department head’s either being well enough to participate or sick enough to exclude. It would mean more money, though, thanks to some truly enraging university policies, probably not until she’d been in the new job for a year. It would also mean the kind of line on her resume that could make it easier to land in a job someplace where life is a little cheaper and there are more trees. And maybe it will happen, but there are reasons it might not.
In truth, there are plenty of reasons (mostly related to money) that trying for another child right now is irrational, but, well, this is the life that we have, and there are only so many compromises I am willing to make in the name of being sensible.
I think I would be nervous about today’s transfer, if I could get my brain to admit it is really happening. Strange doctor, yawning speculum, the likelihood of a tenaculum. But it seems like something that is going to happen to a character in a movie, not to me. I have little flashes of silly anxieties: I couldn’t remember whether I’d had to wear a hospital gown last time — it isn’t in the blog post — and couldn’t rest until Sugar said yes, I did. (I don’t know why it matters. The Baby Factory has very nice gowns. Perhaps what is really troubling is not remembering.) I am very much looking forward to that Valium.
The sun is up now, and like clockwork, I am tired. Catch you on the flip side, as the kids who are old now used to say.