Is that weird? That cake makes me so happy? I mean deep down, pit of my stomach, grinning from ear to ear happy? I think it might be, but I'll let you be the judge.
Here's the story: My beloved came home from work with a few bags of groceries I'd asked him to pick up and there was cake in one of them. CAKE. I was genuinely excited to see the Kleenex and juice (I'm sick and needed him to forage for sick girl supplies for me since I'm too pitiful and snotty to venture out myself at the moment) but the cake was unexpected -- and, and just so thrilling. CAKE -- cake on a damp, dreary February day. Unexpected cake. There it was, dark and gooey, sitting in a little plastic dome all chocolatey and full of sweet promise. And my heart leapt. And I smiled. I was at peace -- all was right with the world when I had that one blissful moment of realization that I was going to eat CAKE reeeallllllly soon.
As it so often is, my euphoria was interrupted by the mundane as I finished making dinner and poked through the mail. But then I'd catch site of CAKE again and the flush of anticipation would race through me anew. When I sat down to eat dinner, CAKE left my mind, ever so briefly. But throughout the meal it would pop back into my consciousness every now and then, rekindling the flame of my raw desire.
And then it was time to eat CAKE. And it was bliss. Thick, sticky-icing bliss on a plate. I was happy. It's been an hour and I'm still happy. CAKE is coursing through my veins. We are one.
See? Is this weird? I keep thinking it's just because my beloved surprised me with a sweet treat on a day he knew I needed a little pick-me-up. I keep thinking THAT'S what's made me so happy. I keep thinking HE'S the sweet one, not CAKE. But the thing of it is, CAKE IS sweet and I do love CAKE. I love CAKE a lot.
But of course it goes without saying that I love my beloved more. And maybe, just maybe he'll bring me CAKE again one day soon...
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
I Miss Me.
I just e-mailed my beloved and asked if he's as tired of my pregnant mood swings as I am. How stupid am I? The poor man can't answer this question. What was I thinking? So now there's a small, sunny office in downtown Toronto covered with the contents of his head. There's gray matter sliding down yellow walls onto scuffed hardwood floors and a MAC that's dripping with the blood of the man I love.
I've blown up my husband. I'm sure of it. His brain went into overdrive trying to figure out the best response (the one that would cause the least violently emotional outburst from me) and it simply blew up.
Men aren't equipped for answering these kinds of questions this late in their wives' pregnancies. Not after 8 months of calming irrational fears, dodging endless "does this make me look fat?" queries, researching morning sickness and heartburn remedies online, watching doctors poke and prod, pretending to see the sweetness in a grainy black and white ultrasound of an alien blob, sitting through breastfeeding classes and just generally soothing, placating, reassuring and comforting.
So this is my public apology to my beloved. Or what's left of him. I'm sorry I asked you if you were as sick of my mood swings as I am. Of COURSE you are -- but I had no right to ask, because I know you can't answer with any truthfulness.
I'm also sorry that I'm at my most exhausted and bloated (and, therefore, freaked out) right about the time you walk in the door after working hard all day long. I'm sorry that the me you married has turned into some other women (who even I don't recognize half the time) who burps and farts with reckless abandon but chastizes you when you do the same. I'm sorry I have no energy and prefer naps to making out. I'm sorry I can't lift anything bigger than a slice of bread, shovel snow or change the cat box (okay, I'm not actually that sorry about the cat box).
I miss me too. But they say I'll be back. Unfortunately I'll be back with a tiny someone whose mood swings will be far worse than anything you've seen from me these past 8 months. Fortunately they say we'll love every single second of it.
So they say, anyway. But somehow I believe them.
I've blown up my husband. I'm sure of it. His brain went into overdrive trying to figure out the best response (the one that would cause the least violently emotional outburst from me) and it simply blew up.
Men aren't equipped for answering these kinds of questions this late in their wives' pregnancies. Not after 8 months of calming irrational fears, dodging endless "does this make me look fat?" queries, researching morning sickness and heartburn remedies online, watching doctors poke and prod, pretending to see the sweetness in a grainy black and white ultrasound of an alien blob, sitting through breastfeeding classes and just generally soothing, placating, reassuring and comforting.
So this is my public apology to my beloved. Or what's left of him. I'm sorry I asked you if you were as sick of my mood swings as I am. Of COURSE you are -- but I had no right to ask, because I know you can't answer with any truthfulness.
I'm also sorry that I'm at my most exhausted and bloated (and, therefore, freaked out) right about the time you walk in the door after working hard all day long. I'm sorry that the me you married has turned into some other women (who even I don't recognize half the time) who burps and farts with reckless abandon but chastizes you when you do the same. I'm sorry I have no energy and prefer naps to making out. I'm sorry I can't lift anything bigger than a slice of bread, shovel snow or change the cat box (okay, I'm not actually that sorry about the cat box).
I miss me too. But they say I'll be back. Unfortunately I'll be back with a tiny someone whose mood swings will be far worse than anything you've seen from me these past 8 months. Fortunately they say we'll love every single second of it.
So they say, anyway. But somehow I believe them.
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
Life and death and other things on my mind
Right now as I sit here creating my first ever blog (which I know I'm not actually cool enough to do -- but apparently they'll let just about anyone do it) I'm filled with life and consumed by thoughts of death.
Let's chat about the life part first. I'm quite literally filled with it. My little Peanut, who has been quietly and miraculously growing inside me for 29 weeks -- is making his presence known with kicks and jabs as well as gentle rumblies this afternoon. I wonder if this means he'll sleep tonight. It would be nice if one of us made it through the night without waking up.
But actually, the one nice thing about being up in the middle of the night is Peanut. My once able bladder is slowly being rendered quite useless by the pressure of the Peanut, so I'm up a lot. And so is he. I guess my moving wakes him and so when I lay back down he starts squirming -- ready for action. When it's not the kind of low, hard abdominal kicks that, to be honest, freak me out, I love feeling him moving around in the night. I lay on my back in the darkness and put my hands on my stomach, waiting for each new movement. The (sometimes) soft breathing of my beloved laying beside me provides the music for this little in-utero dance recital. And I love every moment of it. Feeling the baby I love and hearing the man I love.
I don't love the man's snoring all that much, but apparently I'm quite adept at nasal trumpeting myself, so I try to keep the complaining down to a minimum. And really, with all I have in my life right now -- blessings too many to count -- a little snoring is nothing at all.
I'm actually really in awe of my blessings these days. Like Maria (The Sound of Music lovers out there should easily catch this reference) I figure I must have done something good to deserve all this, but I can't for the life of me figure out what it is. But I know I have the rest of my life to be thankful -- and to make sure I make the most of these blessings by being the best mother and wife I can.
I still can't quite believe I'm going to be a mother, or that the man I love is going to be a father. But we are -- it's charging at us like a freight train. Yes, that's a scary image, and I just finished saying I'm blessed and thankful for the gift, but it's a scary proposition too. I've never done this before -- been responsible for a little human I made myself. A little human who doesn't come with a manual, or so I've been told. So forgive me if every once in a while I freak out ever so slightly at the prospect of being a parent.
I'm sure all will be well, as the man I love keeps telling me (in a vain attempt to stave off another panic attack and/or hormone-induced crying jag). I'm sure all will be well, but I'm sure there will be more tears and more panic on the horizon. I do actually have to birth this little Peanut, you see. Right now that's scaring me more than raising him, but I actually think that's a good thing. The birthing will last a few hours (God willing) but the raising won't end until I do.
Which brings me to thoughts of death. Maybe they're not actually consuming me (a little dramatic up there, I suppose) but they're certainly surrounding me today. I found out a good friend's Father died on New Year's Eve. He's been hovering near the brink for years really, but it's still a shock when someone takes that last step and moves beyond this world. Here one minute, gone the next.
It's just so weird to be sitting here with a new life inside me while other lives are ending. I know this is the way of life, but I've never felt like such a key part of the process before. It's kind of awesome -- awe-inspiring, I mean. I'm carrying new life while others are preparing themselves for the rituals of saying goodbye to an old one.
Heady thoughts for a cold, snowy January day. But that too, is life. I guess the trick is getting used to the things that inspire awe, but never letting those things cease to amaze you. Another trick is sleeping through the night when you're seven months pregnant, but that's one I'm sure I'll never master.
Let's chat about the life part first. I'm quite literally filled with it. My little Peanut, who has been quietly and miraculously growing inside me for 29 weeks -- is making his presence known with kicks and jabs as well as gentle rumblies this afternoon. I wonder if this means he'll sleep tonight. It would be nice if one of us made it through the night without waking up.
But actually, the one nice thing about being up in the middle of the night is Peanut. My once able bladder is slowly being rendered quite useless by the pressure of the Peanut, so I'm up a lot. And so is he. I guess my moving wakes him and so when I lay back down he starts squirming -- ready for action. When it's not the kind of low, hard abdominal kicks that, to be honest, freak me out, I love feeling him moving around in the night. I lay on my back in the darkness and put my hands on my stomach, waiting for each new movement. The (sometimes) soft breathing of my beloved laying beside me provides the music for this little in-utero dance recital. And I love every moment of it. Feeling the baby I love and hearing the man I love.
I don't love the man's snoring all that much, but apparently I'm quite adept at nasal trumpeting myself, so I try to keep the complaining down to a minimum. And really, with all I have in my life right now -- blessings too many to count -- a little snoring is nothing at all.
I'm actually really in awe of my blessings these days. Like Maria (The Sound of Music lovers out there should easily catch this reference) I figure I must have done something good to deserve all this, but I can't for the life of me figure out what it is. But I know I have the rest of my life to be thankful -- and to make sure I make the most of these blessings by being the best mother and wife I can.
I still can't quite believe I'm going to be a mother, or that the man I love is going to be a father. But we are -- it's charging at us like a freight train. Yes, that's a scary image, and I just finished saying I'm blessed and thankful for the gift, but it's a scary proposition too. I've never done this before -- been responsible for a little human I made myself. A little human who doesn't come with a manual, or so I've been told. So forgive me if every once in a while I freak out ever so slightly at the prospect of being a parent.
I'm sure all will be well, as the man I love keeps telling me (in a vain attempt to stave off another panic attack and/or hormone-induced crying jag). I'm sure all will be well, but I'm sure there will be more tears and more panic on the horizon. I do actually have to birth this little Peanut, you see. Right now that's scaring me more than raising him, but I actually think that's a good thing. The birthing will last a few hours (God willing) but the raising won't end until I do.
Which brings me to thoughts of death. Maybe they're not actually consuming me (a little dramatic up there, I suppose) but they're certainly surrounding me today. I found out a good friend's Father died on New Year's Eve. He's been hovering near the brink for years really, but it's still a shock when someone takes that last step and moves beyond this world. Here one minute, gone the next.
It's just so weird to be sitting here with a new life inside me while other lives are ending. I know this is the way of life, but I've never felt like such a key part of the process before. It's kind of awesome -- awe-inspiring, I mean. I'm carrying new life while others are preparing themselves for the rituals of saying goodbye to an old one.
Heady thoughts for a cold, snowy January day. But that too, is life. I guess the trick is getting used to the things that inspire awe, but never letting those things cease to amaze you. Another trick is sleeping through the night when you're seven months pregnant, but that's one I'm sure I'll never master.
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