This is a little overdue, but here goes.
On Memorial Day, I agreed to go with my dear friend to attend the Memorial Day Service at the cemetery as well as to see her husband's grave. I had never been to see his grave in the 8 months since he's been gone, nor had I ever gone to a ceremony on Memorial Day. I wasn't sure what to expect or what kind of emotions would hit me, and since she acted as though it was a normal thing, I decided I needed to as well.
First of all, veteran cemeteries are such quiet battlefields. To walk among the headstones and see the names of men and women, young and old, serving from previous conflicts to the present one was like walking on pages of my high school history book. As we arrived at his particular grave before the service started, I slowed my pace in the muddy grass while the rain thumped on my rain jacket. His site is on the corner of a large plot of other graves, all lined up with such precision you could measure angles by them. Others had already left mementos for him: a single yellow daisy on top, a grocery store quality bouquet laid on the grass in front, a red flag with the letters "KIA" being soaked by the rain, a red white and blue pinwheel on the other side of the stone. His wife with their 3 month old daughter strapped to her front leaned down to place her bouquet of red roses front and center, commenting earlier how she, "should've gotten something more patriotic looking," instead of roses.
I clicked photos of the three of them, she bending down to be at his level, and I could only think, something is so wrong with this picture. He shouldn't be down there while these two beautiful girls are up here. I looked up and down the rows of the fallen and wondered if he was truly glad he sacrificed as he did. If he knew how much his baby had his forehead or opened her eyes wide like him when she jibbered...if he knew how much his wife cried when the house was quiet...would he still have given up his life so willingly? Would he have made comments like, "If I die when I go out there today"? Would he have taken more care in filling out the worst-case-scenario paperwork before he deployed?
We continued walking in the pouring rain down the boulevard lined with limp American flags until we got to the service site. A community band played off to the side, old men stood in ill-fitting uniforms smiling to themselves, kids ran around in their galoshes splashing through puddles, and flags with eagles, ships, stars, and anchors hung about the stage. Other women supporting my friend found her and pointed us where to go, googling and ahh-ing over her little one, and we stood under a giant golf umbrella in the rain as the ceremony started.
I don't remember much of what was said or it being anything of grand significance, but the scene is stamped in my brain. Spouses' arms around one another; hands over hearts as songs and pledges came over the sound system; the sun shining through for about 8 minutes; an eagle soaring overhead with his familiar cry. And at the end when they read off the KIA servicemen names, I touched my friend's arm as his familiar name sounded like glass being dropped on concrete.
We walked back to the car in the rain and as I saw families walking through the graves with their young children, it hit me. This is a day that no longer means barbecues, camping trips, swimming, or a nice long weekend to do yard work. This day now means a time to honor those who gave up so much, like a sweet young wife and adorable baby girl. I've only gotten a glimpse of what being a military family is like, but the respect I have for the men, women, and children who call this their life...who risk everything to serve ungrateful Americans...who are easily forgotten after the evening news reports of their death...I'll carry that respect forever.
God is calling my family to something different and that means leaving the military after my husband has served so faithfully for all of his adult life. I can only imagine the feelings that he will go through during that transition, but I can speak for myself and say that I will never look back on our time in the service as a black spot in our history. I never want to say, "So glad THAT'S over with," because look how much being a dependent has taught me. Look how much I've learned about all those who are lifers. Look at how many amazing opportunities have been given to me. I would have never met the group of people that I now call my best friends nor would I have appreciated their struggles as I do now. I am privileged and proud to say my husband is in the U.S. Army, even with all of their shenanigans, backward philosophies and low pay. I am proud to be an Army wife and proud to live in this country, as Toby-Keith-cliche as that sounds.
Next year I want to start the tradition of visiting soldiers' graves or going to a service, even if Ethan is too young to understand. I want him to know why there's a day set aside and why it's important to our family and to so many other families. We will barbecue and swim and pull weeds, but we will remember our dear friend with a bouquet of roses on his grave and his daughter who will continue his memory simply by smiling.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Friday, June 4, 2010
A+ Mom
I am going to be the best mother.
The end.
(What if I ended the post right there?)
No, friends, I will not be the best mother. But I'm damn going to try! I've been with myself for almost 24 years now and I can say with confidence that I know my tendencies. I'm neurotic. I'm a perfectionist. A go-getter, a suck-up and a people-pleaser.
Great qualities for a first-time mom, right? Eesh. I'm scared for myself.
I'm reading the best parenting books and researching which detergent is best, how to make your own baby wipes, the best schedules for eating, wake time, and sleep time. I have statistics, other mothers' wisdom, !!SCIENCE!! (never would have thought I, as an English major, would ever use science...how silly). When other [less-informed] mothers [of kids not so well-behaved] comment on their techniques or struggles, I nod with focused eyes and let out the appropriate number of mhms and yeahs, but inside I'm saying, "CLEARLY she hasn't read ___ by ___," or, "that's not what I learned in my class," or, "her baby would be better if she did __, __, and __."
Afterward I think exclamation point thoughts:
You're becoming one of those mothers!
You think you know everything and you don't have any kids yet!
You're so full of yourself!
You'll get the kid who makes you wonder if demons inhabit babies!
Then the caps lock thoughts:
JUST YOU WAIT MISSY! YOU'RE GOING TO REGRET ALL OF YOUR HIGH AND LOFTY GOALS!
Here's where my perfectionism really kicks in. I think that because I'm aware of how I'm a perfectionist that somehow that awareness will help me to be less of a perfectionist. I then can strike the perfect balance of a mother who is in charge and has a beautifully adapted, respectful, well-behaved child and also deals with spit-up shirts, greasy unshowered hair, a messy car interior that smells tangy, and crud under my child's fingernails.
Basically, in attempting to not be perfect, I want to be the perfect, imperfect mother.
I don't want to make mistakes, and if I do I want them to be minor...like I taught him to read too soon and now he's going straight to first grade instead of kindergarten. I want to have all of the available knowledge on how to handle things so that I can be informed, make smart decisions, have responses to people's questions. I want my son to get the best of me. As a person who hates working, the idea of a career, the 9-5 gig, a person who quits jobs after a few months if I get bored...this is the one job I don't want to screw up.
But I know I am. In the back of my head is the voice that says let go now, Allison, and life will be so much easier. Enjoy each awkward, messed up, imperfect moment. Embrace the mismatched outfits, the spit-up on your blouse, the tangy smelling car, the toys scattered in every crack and crevice. Love your boy...feed him food and give him baths...keep your marriage as a priority and don't become a parent obsessed with her child.
Because ultimately, he isn't mine. God gave him to us and God can take him away. In fact the whole premise of parenting seems backwards: do everything you can to love him so he can leave someday. The goal is to get him out as a contributing human to society and man of God...not keep him like a little pet.
(I'm getting misty-eyed thinking of him in a cap and gown at graduation or in a tux watching his bride come down the aisle....I SO am that mother already!)
I'm going to try to be perfect because that's just me. And I have confidence that I'm going to do a lot of great things. I know, however, that I'm going to do a lot of not so great things and that's ok.
I'm going to get on my knees every morning and ask God for what I need for THAT day and pray I do alright. I'm going to ask questions, read books, search parenting forums...but in the end I'm going to make mistakes. I'm going to love him to pieces. I'm going to TRY to not let other people bully me into being this kind of parent or that kind of parent. I'm going to snap a lot of pictures and scribble a lot of notes. I'm going to look at his sweet face and look for my husband in his features so I remember who came first. I'm going to laugh about the food crusted in his hair after a nap. And I'd like to sleep more than I organize his sock drawer.
That's all I can really do as an imperfect mother trying to be perfect.
The end.
(What if I ended the post right there?)
No, friends, I will not be the best mother. But I'm damn going to try! I've been with myself for almost 24 years now and I can say with confidence that I know my tendencies. I'm neurotic. I'm a perfectionist. A go-getter, a suck-up and a people-pleaser.
Great qualities for a first-time mom, right? Eesh. I'm scared for myself.
I'm reading the best parenting books and researching which detergent is best, how to make your own baby wipes, the best schedules for eating, wake time, and sleep time. I have statistics, other mothers' wisdom, !!SCIENCE!! (never would have thought I, as an English major, would ever use science...how silly). When other [less-informed] mothers [of kids not so well-behaved] comment on their techniques or struggles, I nod with focused eyes and let out the appropriate number of mhms and yeahs, but inside I'm saying, "CLEARLY she hasn't read ___ by ___," or, "that's not what I learned in my class," or, "her baby would be better if she did __, __, and __."
Afterward I think exclamation point thoughts:
You're becoming one of those mothers!
You think you know everything and you don't have any kids yet!
You're so full of yourself!
You'll get the kid who makes you wonder if demons inhabit babies!
Then the caps lock thoughts:
JUST YOU WAIT MISSY! YOU'RE GOING TO REGRET ALL OF YOUR HIGH AND LOFTY GOALS!
Here's where my perfectionism really kicks in. I think that because I'm aware of how I'm a perfectionist that somehow that awareness will help me to be less of a perfectionist. I then can strike the perfect balance of a mother who is in charge and has a beautifully adapted, respectful, well-behaved child and also deals with spit-up shirts, greasy unshowered hair, a messy car interior that smells tangy, and crud under my child's fingernails.
Basically, in attempting to not be perfect, I want to be the perfect, imperfect mother.
I don't want to make mistakes, and if I do I want them to be minor...like I taught him to read too soon and now he's going straight to first grade instead of kindergarten. I want to have all of the available knowledge on how to handle things so that I can be informed, make smart decisions, have responses to people's questions. I want my son to get the best of me. As a person who hates working, the idea of a career, the 9-5 gig, a person who quits jobs after a few months if I get bored...this is the one job I don't want to screw up.
But I know I am. In the back of my head is the voice that says let go now, Allison, and life will be so much easier. Enjoy each awkward, messed up, imperfect moment. Embrace the mismatched outfits, the spit-up on your blouse, the tangy smelling car, the toys scattered in every crack and crevice. Love your boy...feed him food and give him baths...keep your marriage as a priority and don't become a parent obsessed with her child.
Because ultimately, he isn't mine. God gave him to us and God can take him away. In fact the whole premise of parenting seems backwards: do everything you can to love him so he can leave someday. The goal is to get him out as a contributing human to society and man of God...not keep him like a little pet.
(I'm getting misty-eyed thinking of him in a cap and gown at graduation or in a tux watching his bride come down the aisle....I SO am that mother already!)
I'm going to try to be perfect because that's just me. And I have confidence that I'm going to do a lot of great things. I know, however, that I'm going to do a lot of not so great things and that's ok.
I'm going to get on my knees every morning and ask God for what I need for THAT day and pray I do alright. I'm going to ask questions, read books, search parenting forums...but in the end I'm going to make mistakes. I'm going to love him to pieces. I'm going to TRY to not let other people bully me into being this kind of parent or that kind of parent. I'm going to snap a lot of pictures and scribble a lot of notes. I'm going to look at his sweet face and look for my husband in his features so I remember who came first. I'm going to laugh about the food crusted in his hair after a nap. And I'd like to sleep more than I organize his sock drawer.
That's all I can really do as an imperfect mother trying to be perfect.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Ok seriously...
After browsing over my last few posts, I freak out/whine/spazz/complain regularly (ie constantly). It's time for change! (For real...not Obama change)
The biggest topic of discussion -- literally -- is my pregnancy. Still pregnant (36 weeks!) and although all of my previous complaints are still true and worse, I'm getting used to it. My outie is a proud figurehead on this ship of a body; my nightly bathroom breaks help me know what time it is; after getting stuck in the couch last week, I am now a master of the "huh!" and roll...throwing myself off chairs, beds, and sofas. And my boob doesn't hurt anymore.
June is no longer a topic of anxiety. First of all, it's next week. Where did May go? I'm praying for some warmer weather, you know...above 55 degrees...that's a fair request I think. I have so many things left to do in preparation for Phil's return and baby's arrival -- curtains to be made, kitchen linoleum to be washed, car mats to be vacuumed, husband's hygiene products to be stocked (yes, he's very particular about his soaps and shampoos), propane tanks to be refilled -- that's a good week or two right there! THEN my mom and my aunt are coming out for a week right before my due date! I'm excited to have company who will double as cooks, cleaners, errand runners...and I have no shame saying that because I've been alone for 7 months...I will take whatever help I can get!
After breaking down I don't know how many times, I'm done crying, I'm done thinking myself into a tornado, I'm done bargaining with God and trying to twist His arm into doing what I want. Believe it or not, I'm not as persuasive as I think and He really doesn't play into my games...imagine that (more like thank God!). It's going to work out and in the end He will still be a good God and I will have reason to praise Him: I'm getting a son and my husband is coming home after almost 8 months!
So rest...that's the name of the game. Few more weeks...no more complaining.
The biggest topic of discussion -- literally -- is my pregnancy. Still pregnant (36 weeks!) and although all of my previous complaints are still true and worse, I'm getting used to it. My outie is a proud figurehead on this ship of a body; my nightly bathroom breaks help me know what time it is; after getting stuck in the couch last week, I am now a master of the "huh!" and roll...throwing myself off chairs, beds, and sofas. And my boob doesn't hurt anymore.
June is no longer a topic of anxiety. First of all, it's next week. Where did May go? I'm praying for some warmer weather, you know...above 55 degrees...that's a fair request I think. I have so many things left to do in preparation for Phil's return and baby's arrival -- curtains to be made, kitchen linoleum to be washed, car mats to be vacuumed, husband's hygiene products to be stocked (yes, he's very particular about his soaps and shampoos), propane tanks to be refilled -- that's a good week or two right there! THEN my mom and my aunt are coming out for a week right before my due date! I'm excited to have company who will double as cooks, cleaners, errand runners...and I have no shame saying that because I've been alone for 7 months...I will take whatever help I can get!
After breaking down I don't know how many times, I'm done crying, I'm done thinking myself into a tornado, I'm done bargaining with God and trying to twist His arm into doing what I want. Believe it or not, I'm not as persuasive as I think and He really doesn't play into my games...imagine that (more like thank God!). It's going to work out and in the end He will still be a good God and I will have reason to praise Him: I'm getting a son and my husband is coming home after almost 8 months!
So rest...that's the name of the game. Few more weeks...no more complaining.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
whine fest 2010
June will never get here.
I will always be pregnant.
Coffee never tastes like I need it to taste.
The Pacific Northwest is the wet blanket to summer.
I am not as strong as I need to be right now.
Stupid Army.
The end.
I will always be pregnant.
Coffee never tastes like I need it to taste.
The Pacific Northwest is the wet blanket to summer.
I am not as strong as I need to be right now.
Stupid Army.
The end.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
crud at 1pm
I don't know why I enjoy setting myself up for cruddy days. Does the cruddy part come first so I go with it, or do I subconsciously feel it coming so I start acting cruddily, (yes, it's a word) thus perpetuating the cruddiness?
Today started off a great morning: my strawberry plant is growing, sunshine was warming through my blinds, my english muffin toasted up extra crispy, and I finished knitting a frog hat for E. Great day for success, I thought. I then went to Bible study and anticipated Phil calling so I had my phone on vibrate literally touching my leg so I wouldn't miss it. [Side note: it's funny how when your spouse is deployed, all social etiquette goes out the window. If someone had her phone on her like that during a Bible study, I would be thinking all sort of judgmental thoughts. Now when I excuse myself and whisper, "Sorry my husband from Afghanistan" everyone nods and murmurs their approval.]
To continue.
During prayer at the end (I know I know and I'm sorry!), I checked the screen and sure enough, 1 missed call and 1 voicemail. Really? How did that happen? I ducked out afterward and found out he was online even though I wouldn't be home for another hour. I decided to save face for about an extra half hour - because how rude would I look if I just left?? - then I booked it home. Thankfully he responded to my, "Are you still there??" and we got to talk for another hour and a half.
So this should be added to the Good Things to Happen Today column on my list, but it didn't. I loved talking to him and I'm so happy to know he's safe, but talking to him on certain days just makes my heart cringe up like a charlie horse. I share with him how busy I am, all the fun things I'm getting to do (setting up E's room!), and then as I'm smiling and typing, giant tears splash onto the keyboard.
Yesterday I had to move five giant tactical boxes in the baby room to other strategically hidden places in our apartment so E's room wouldn't look like a military training facility. These were heavy when I moved them way back in November, but now with a person sticking off my front and my ears constantly popping from heavy breathing, it took me an hour to scoot [at a snail's pace] these stupid black crates to closets. And of course, my budding paranoid mother side was screaming, "You shouldn't be doing this! Sit down! Call someone! E hates you right now!"
When I finished, I felt accomplished and proud to have done so much. But after talking to Phil today and telling him about it, I turned into a martyr..."oh what a hard life I lead, without a husband, having to do all of these life-threatening tasks without my burly man to do it." It's true to a degree: I do wish he was here and could see all of the soft, squishy and tiny things...and could have moved those boxes. I don't understand, however, how yesterday's high turned into today's crud.
Maybe I needed a good cry...maybe it's all a part of the daily "stuff" of deployment...but I don't like it. I hate that feeling of being able to cry all day. As I sat there talking with Phil on the computer, I realized yet again how frustrating it is to not be able to tell your best friend that you're sitting there weeping (he had no idea as I inserted lots of !! and smiley faces). It'd be one thing if he were at work, I called him crying to tell him about my crappy day, and know that he can say, "I'm sorry honey. When I come home tonight, we can talk more about it/I'll snuggle you/I'll make you dinner," all things he would say if he were here. But what can he do? Pray, write me a sweet email, call me the next day to check on me...yes...but not crawl into bed with me at night, kiss my cheek and tell me how he loves the baby room.
It sounds as though I'm writing this at the end of a long rough day and I will now sign off and go to bed, waking up to the blooming rhododendrons and possibly pancakes or some other carby deliciousness. Unfortunately, it's only 1pm. (A lot of emotions can happen in 5 hours!) So what now...
Well, I'll take out the trash and count that as my exercise along with the workout I had earlier when I moved the last 2 boxes...there's my 30 minutes. I'll wrap a cute baby gift for a friend with my best taping and folding skills. I'll start knitting another adorable hat (hope E likes hats), then make my way to a friend's house to bake, even though crawling into bed or watching a movie sounds more appealing.
This is normal life, and I whine a lot about it. It would probably be easier if I cut out the whining part and recognized it as normal life. Another thing with deployment: no one is bold enough to say to you, "Buck up. You're fine. Your husband is fine. Stop crying and make this day a good one, cruddy or not" because that would seem insensitive or somehow deployment gives you that right to be a pouty cry-baby. So since no one else will:
Al, buck up. This is life. Blow your nose and take out the recycle.
Today started off a great morning: my strawberry plant is growing, sunshine was warming through my blinds, my english muffin toasted up extra crispy, and I finished knitting a frog hat for E. Great day for success, I thought. I then went to Bible study and anticipated Phil calling so I had my phone on vibrate literally touching my leg so I wouldn't miss it. [Side note: it's funny how when your spouse is deployed, all social etiquette goes out the window. If someone had her phone on her like that during a Bible study, I would be thinking all sort of judgmental thoughts. Now when I excuse myself and whisper, "Sorry my husband from Afghanistan" everyone nods and murmurs their approval.]
To continue.
During prayer at the end (I know I know and I'm sorry!), I checked the screen and sure enough, 1 missed call and 1 voicemail. Really? How did that happen? I ducked out afterward and found out he was online even though I wouldn't be home for another hour. I decided to save face for about an extra half hour - because how rude would I look if I just left?? - then I booked it home. Thankfully he responded to my, "Are you still there??" and we got to talk for another hour and a half.
So this should be added to the Good Things to Happen Today column on my list, but it didn't. I loved talking to him and I'm so happy to know he's safe, but talking to him on certain days just makes my heart cringe up like a charlie horse. I share with him how busy I am, all the fun things I'm getting to do (setting up E's room!), and then as I'm smiling and typing, giant tears splash onto the keyboard.
Yesterday I had to move five giant tactical boxes in the baby room to other strategically hidden places in our apartment so E's room wouldn't look like a military training facility. These were heavy when I moved them way back in November, but now with a person sticking off my front and my ears constantly popping from heavy breathing, it took me an hour to scoot [at a snail's pace] these stupid black crates to closets. And of course, my budding paranoid mother side was screaming, "You shouldn't be doing this! Sit down! Call someone! E hates you right now!"
When I finished, I felt accomplished and proud to have done so much. But after talking to Phil today and telling him about it, I turned into a martyr..."oh what a hard life I lead, without a husband, having to do all of these life-threatening tasks without my burly man to do it." It's true to a degree: I do wish he was here and could see all of the soft, squishy and tiny things...and could have moved those boxes. I don't understand, however, how yesterday's high turned into today's crud.
Maybe I needed a good cry...maybe it's all a part of the daily "stuff" of deployment...but I don't like it. I hate that feeling of being able to cry all day. As I sat there talking with Phil on the computer, I realized yet again how frustrating it is to not be able to tell your best friend that you're sitting there weeping (he had no idea as I inserted lots of !! and smiley faces). It'd be one thing if he were at work, I called him crying to tell him about my crappy day, and know that he can say, "I'm sorry honey. When I come home tonight, we can talk more about it/I'll snuggle you/I'll make you dinner," all things he would say if he were here. But what can he do? Pray, write me a sweet email, call me the next day to check on me...yes...but not crawl into bed with me at night, kiss my cheek and tell me how he loves the baby room.
It sounds as though I'm writing this at the end of a long rough day and I will now sign off and go to bed, waking up to the blooming rhododendrons and possibly pancakes or some other carby deliciousness. Unfortunately, it's only 1pm. (A lot of emotions can happen in 5 hours!) So what now...
Well, I'll take out the trash and count that as my exercise along with the workout I had earlier when I moved the last 2 boxes...there's my 30 minutes. I'll wrap a cute baby gift for a friend with my best taping and folding skills. I'll start knitting another adorable hat (hope E likes hats), then make my way to a friend's house to bake, even though crawling into bed or watching a movie sounds more appealing.
This is normal life, and I whine a lot about it. It would probably be easier if I cut out the whining part and recognized it as normal life. Another thing with deployment: no one is bold enough to say to you, "Buck up. You're fine. Your husband is fine. Stop crying and make this day a good one, cruddy or not" because that would seem insensitive or somehow deployment gives you that right to be a pouty cry-baby. So since no one else will:
Al, buck up. This is life. Blow your nose and take out the recycle.
Friday, April 16, 2010
5.5 months in, 30 weeks preggers
I'm ready to be unpregnant.
I know I shouldn't complain because I'm only 30 weeks and the road is just going to get steeper from here on out, but everyday I am bigger and everyday I realize how way in over my head I am. Common thoughts that rumble through my mind:
- What's with all of these new freckles? Are some of them cancer?
- What is just the left boob so sore? Shouldn't the right one be too?
- Will I ever sleep soundly again?
- Is my bellybutton turning into an outie? Of all things, please no.
- How do other women stay pregnant for 40 weeks?
On top of these first-timer questions, I am thoroughly psyching myself out for the month of June. I know I'm going to freak out - with excitement - about Phil coming home...June is a word that I love to say. But as I'm seeing what R&R looks like for guys coming home lately, none of them are home when they're supposed to be home...they're ALL 2+ days late. Super frustrating in and of itself. But THEN to be ready to pop at any second?? I can already envision the sleepless nights, trying to breathe deeply but getting sick to my stomach hoping that I don't go into labor.
How is this going to work? I'm getting myself ready to deliver all by myself, if necessary, so that I won't be disappointed if Phil's not there. But lets be serious...of course I'm going to be disappointed, crying my eyes out in between contractions, and hating Army for having such backwards flights and keeping my husband away from me (that's a long-standing grudge though).
I know God will work it out, but I still can't help obsessing over it, creating back up plans for back up plans. How can so much joy be surrounded by so much stress? What if my husband misses the birth of our first baby? Am I strong enough to do it alone?
I don't know. And I'm spazzing out just writing this post, so I'll move on to the joys of being pregnant.
Peeing 2-3 times per night...always peeing all day.
Baby having hiccups which feel like a steady drumbeat in your gut...while you're trying to sleep.
Heartburn 3 bites into a meal.
Squished stomach that only allows 3 bites per meal.
Making sound effects when you bend over, get out of a chair, lean down, or roll over in bed.
Learning how to heave yourself off couches and other absorbent materials.
Thinking a t-shirt still fits, putting it on, and having it actually cause you pain.
Needing to catch your breath after tying your shoelaces.
Forgetting you're pregnant and scaring yourself when you look in the mirror.
I'm exhausted, pre-freaking out about June, having a love/hate relationship with pregnancy, and need to pee, yet again. I wish I could Rip Van Winkle it until week 40...
I know I shouldn't complain because I'm only 30 weeks and the road is just going to get steeper from here on out, but everyday I am bigger and everyday I realize how way in over my head I am. Common thoughts that rumble through my mind:
- What's with all of these new freckles? Are some of them cancer?
- What is just the left boob so sore? Shouldn't the right one be too?
- Will I ever sleep soundly again?
- Is my bellybutton turning into an outie? Of all things, please no.
- How do other women stay pregnant for 40 weeks?
On top of these first-timer questions, I am thoroughly psyching myself out for the month of June. I know I'm going to freak out - with excitement - about Phil coming home...June is a word that I love to say. But as I'm seeing what R&R looks like for guys coming home lately, none of them are home when they're supposed to be home...they're ALL 2+ days late. Super frustrating in and of itself. But THEN to be ready to pop at any second?? I can already envision the sleepless nights, trying to breathe deeply but getting sick to my stomach hoping that I don't go into labor.
How is this going to work? I'm getting myself ready to deliver all by myself, if necessary, so that I won't be disappointed if Phil's not there. But lets be serious...of course I'm going to be disappointed, crying my eyes out in between contractions, and hating Army for having such backwards flights and keeping my husband away from me (that's a long-standing grudge though).
I know God will work it out, but I still can't help obsessing over it, creating back up plans for back up plans. How can so much joy be surrounded by so much stress? What if my husband misses the birth of our first baby? Am I strong enough to do it alone?
I don't know. And I'm spazzing out just writing this post, so I'll move on to the joys of being pregnant.
Peeing 2-3 times per night...always peeing all day.
Baby having hiccups which feel like a steady drumbeat in your gut...while you're trying to sleep.
Heartburn 3 bites into a meal.
Squished stomach that only allows 3 bites per meal.
Making sound effects when you bend over, get out of a chair, lean down, or roll over in bed.
Learning how to heave yourself off couches and other absorbent materials.
Thinking a t-shirt still fits, putting it on, and having it actually cause you pain.
Needing to catch your breath after tying your shoelaces.
Forgetting you're pregnant and scaring yourself when you look in the mirror.
I'm exhausted, pre-freaking out about June, having a love/hate relationship with pregnancy, and need to pee, yet again. I wish I could Rip Van Winkle it until week 40...
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
daziness
Do you ever feel like you're in a daze? Life feels dazy right now. I don't know whether I should complain about this, add or subtract activities, start some project or new goal, or just daze.
Life will forever change in about 2.5 months...at least that's what I'm gearing myself up for. If you knew things would be drastically different at a certain point in time, would you ride the good ride until it happened or attempt to do something epic?
Life will forever change in about 2.5 months...at least that's what I'm gearing myself up for. If you knew things would be drastically different at a certain point in time, would you ride the good ride until it happened or attempt to do something epic?
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