This evening I was shuffling stuff around in one of our cluttered bathroom drawers searching for a clip so I could pull back my hair (which is desperately in need of a cut) when I bumped into a heating pad/wrap that My Beloved bought for me the week before Thomas was born.
I'd done something to my wrist. I didn't know what at the time, and I still don't, but it was hurting like hell and I was concerned about not being able to look after the baby properly if my right wrist was sore and not able to support much weight. I was really kind of freaked out.
My Beloved, who was (and is) so ready to do anything to help me, ran off to the drugstore and returned home with everything imaginable to help a pregnant girl with a bum wrist. The heating pad was my remedy of choice, and it helped a lot. Within a day or so my wrist was just fine again.
But as it turned out I had no reason to worry. I didn't end up with baby to hold anyway.
Damn hair. Damn clip. Damn, stupid, friggin' heating pad all full of memories.