I Just Can’t Stop

Ugh, I just can’t seem to get my feet under me to right this feeling of suck.

 

Last night we visited a couple of friends who had just had a baby.  They are friends who are near and dear to my heart, and their new daughter (two weeks old!  Not even seven pounds!  So small and cuddly and cute and she never fussed, not even ONCE while we were there!  Side note: my friend swore she usually is fussy at that time of night, thus confirming that all babies put on a show when others are around just to infuriate us and make us curse later {why do you only fuss for meeeee?!}) is bound to be one of those children I have the most contact with outside of my own.  We made two dinners to take to them and we had great conversation and cooed over the tiny, adorable baby, and then: disaster.

 

My friend gave me all her maternity clothes.  Because at two weeks post-partum, she is back to her regular jeans size.  Has even lost a bit of weight, she assured me.  And my friend, who is about the same size as I am (not pregnant), tried to give me her maternity pants, but none of them would fit me because I am no longer in size smalls.  Size smalls pinch my love handles (oh, yes, pregnant ladies can have love handles, or at least the fat ones can) and back fat and my thighs have gotten huge and now I have chub rub between them and oh!  I am a walking testimony of “this is what happens when you let yourself go during pregnancy.”  Except that I have tried so hard, you guys.  I work out almost every day – two or three times a week at the gym and a long walk when it’s not raining or snowing.  I eat well, but I guess I eat a lot.  I am always hungry and if I let myself get too hungry, go too long between snacks, I get barfy.  Now, I’m starting to think that “barfy” would have been preferable to “fat.”  I can’t even stand to look at myself.  AND I HAVE 16 WEEKS TO GO!

 

And how come I don’t hear any other women, or read about any other women, who feel this way during pregnancy?  It’s always “blah, blah, blah, so beautiful, creating life, blah, blah, blah.”  Well, yeah, I’m creating life, but I am also packing on pounds to do it, pounds that are going to be tough to take off if I can even manage it at all, because pretty soon I will have TWO children to exhaust me and I will also be THIRTY YEARS OLD.  Yes, that magical age when everything is said to start feeling the effects of gravity and getting wrinkly, and metabolisms are said to slow even further.  How come no one else ever worries about this?  Is it only me?  Am I the only one who has a tough time losing baby weight?  Am I the only one who gains this much during pregnancy?  Where are the others who can help me feel less alone in my inadequacy? 

 

And the thirty years old thing.  I am dreading it.  DREADING.  I will be 36 weeks pregnant when I turn thirty.  I ask you, what kind of party can a person who is 36 weeks pregnant enjoy?  There will be no drinking, no staying up late - I will be exhausted.  Even if I did stay up late, I don’t get to sleep in.  AND when you are that far along, food doesn’t fit in your stomach, and good food gives you heartburn.  The gifts I want (clean my house top-to-bottom, landscape my front yard, remodel my bathrooms) are a bit intensive and they are things I will have to be intimately involved in for them to go my way, except for maybe the cleaning thing, and also, they’re not really gifts as much as they are on the big wishlist of stuff Tony and I would like to get done.  I don’t feel like I’ve had a really great birthday in a long time, maybe ever.  I think my last good one was at the end of the MBA program – a bunch of friends went out with us and we drank and danced and sang karaoke (badly) and it was a lot of fun.  I always plan my own parties (not fun), and I feel bad asking people to celebrate with me.  I want to go out!  I want to have fun!  I want to dance all night!  I don’t want stuff – my birthday is not about gifts, it’s about celebration (I never really thought I’d live this long.  I mean, I guess I didn’t think I wouldn’t live this long, I just didn’t think about anything beyond my twenties).  I don’t want another awkward barbeque where people chill out at my house and I make all the food and do all the dishes.  I want to party.

 

Sometimes I want to smack myself.  Aren’t there more important things in life?  Yes, of course, but I still feel this way.  And then I feel bad for feeling this way.  With all the awful things going on in the world, in our town even, I am focused on getting fat and having a good party when I turn thirty.  I am such an asshole.

 

We came home at 9 pm last night to find that our furnace had died.  It was a very cold night, and now I have to squeeze in a repairman.  I’ll leave work soon, as things seem to be buttoned up around here (thank God for small blessings) and go to my Junior Achievement teaching gig (bad timing), take Buster to the vet because my poor baby dog is limping something awful, pick Charles up from daycare, and hope against hope that when I give the furnace repairman the code to the garage door when he calls sometime in there that he doesn’t steal everything in my house.  Not that it’s worth much, but it all means something to me, and I don’t want to live without my toaster or whatever.  In reality, a person would probably take the TV, I guess, because it’s new.  But hey, I’m not a criminal – maybe there’s a market for toasters, too.  That said, I can live without a TV, but take my toaster, and I will be lost.

 

Oh, yeah, and then I have a meeting at 5:30 tonight, which I have to pay a babysitter to cover since Tony is working, and then I need to pack up for our weekend away.  How does one take a potty-training child on the road?  I guess I’ll just put him in diapers for the drive.  Speaking of potty training, all seemed to be going well yesterday, but this morning, Charles INSISTED on wearing a diaper.  I am making myself resist fighting over potty issues because I can only imagine that things will get tougher if I do, but Geez, kid, you’re killing me, here.

 

And, there you go.  1200 words of complaint.  I’m sorry about that, feel free to stop reading this blog.