So, I went to the doctor today. Everything looks great, Petit Trois is growing and his heart is beating and his lungs are starting to work and, well, a normal person would leave there thinking, "Whoopdie doo." Me, I still stress. I met with a NP I swore I'd never meet with again, as she made me cry the last time I saw her. Over 2 years ago. I didn't have the energy today to complain.
She redeemed herself enough, and was kind enough, and the visit was fine. But then I found out E, who'd had a runny nose since Sunday, has a case of the squirts. TMI, I know. But then my brain is all, "Oh no, he has a virus. I'm going to contract the virus. This baby is going to get it and DIE!" And ergo, I've been washing my hands, using hand sanitizer and stressing ever since.
Please, someone tell me with some certainty that just because my 2 year old has the squirts doesn't mean my yet-to-be-born-alive baby is going to die.
Love: being pregnant with PT and feeling his moves. Hate: Constant anxiety.
I wrote awhile ago about the haterade I drink in honor of my neighbor. And it hasn't really gotten better, but they're moving. So that's good. But it makes me sad to dislike someone so much. Let me rephrase: it bothers me little to dislike this man, but his wife and 4 kids . . . it makes me sad that things are so screwed up. The wife, shortly after Calla died, called a brief cease-fire and brought over flowers, and little gifts for E, and came to my door looking so sad. She gave her condolences, said she was sorry. I hugged her. She signed her name only on the card, and I addressed the thank you note to only her. Somehow that made me feel a bit better, and a bit more sad.
I know I could be a better person, overlook things, get over it. But I'm small and shallow sometimes, and I don't like to be pushed around. So there's that.
Someone asked me the other day "how far along are you?" I really, really wanted to say, "About a year and a half."
We're down to about 7.5 weeks. "Pleaseohpleaseohplease" is the prayer I send out to the Universe every. single. effing. day.