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I want to get pregnant.
Sometimes I don’t even think about it. I go about my life, doing day-to-day things and it never crosses my mind.
Until it does.
And then all I can think about is becoming a mother. I don’t think about the tiny clothes or that baby smell. I don’t think about the sleepless nights and dirty diapers. I know having a child is not a fairytale.
But I want to be a mommy.
You know how some people just know they’re supposed to be a teacher or a painter or whatever…I know I’m supposed to be a mother. I feel it in my bones and when I stop and think about it, it’s all consuming.
When we will start trying has been a topic of discussion recently. We’re not quite there yet. Almost, I think, but not completely. To be honest, I wish we were there. I understand the decisions we have to make before that happens, but I wish we were past them already.
It frustrates me when people ask me what my rush is. I don’t see it as a rush, because in my gut, I know motherhood is the path I’m supposed to take. In one week we will have been together seven years and in that time I have seen the side of Michael that will grow into an amazing father. It’s something I cannot wait to see. Our relationship grows stronger every day and I think we’ll be really great parents.
My gut is telling me so.
Dear Michael,
I was thinking, and I think we just shouldn’t pay the mortgage this month.
Maybe not next month either.
Love,
Your new shoes deprived wife
My finger, while still a little sore, healed straight! And my wedding rings fit again! Weeee!
What’s making you smile today?
There tends to be a sort of unspoken comradery in the physical therapy waiting room. We’re all there for rehab of some sort — arm, leg, hip. I say unspoken because we don’t talk to each other. There’s a glance and a nod, an acknowledgement that we’re all here to get better, but never more than a shared snort towards the television when Kelly Ripa complains about feeling fat.
Today, however, the wall of silence was broken. While thumbing through a Reader’s Digest, I noticed a man come in and make a bit of a commotion sitting down. I took in his gruff demeanor and went back to my reading.
My eyes had just returned to the page when he spoke.
“Want to see my scar?”
I looked up, assuming he was talking to the man sitting next to him, but no. The question was clearly directed at me.
“What?”
“What to see my scar?” he repeated.
Aside from the fact that this is a really weird thing to ask a stranger, I had no idea where his scar was. Was the scar on his arm? The back of his neck? Was there a red line across his abdomen or worse — somewhere that would require dropping his pants? I really didn’t want him to drop his pants and he seemed like the type of person who would have no qualms doing so in a waiting room full of strangers.
“Um, well, oh. You don’t have to. I mean…”
Before I could finish, he pulled up his shirt sleeve. There seemed to be a collective sigh of relief from the other patients and I’m sure my face went from terrified to only slightly confused.
He pointed out his shoulder surgery scar and proceeded to tell us how he did it. Which, ok, fine. But it was still weird.
He was called in before I was and the quiet understanding resumed in the room.
Except this time I know we were all thinking how fortunate we were that it was only his shoulder.
I mentioned earlier that I was going to try and consciously do small acts of kindness — inspired by those who are taking these tough times as an opportunity to help others.
Three years ago, we adopted Kodiak from the Newfoundland Club of New England. The club is made up of amazing people, many who unselfishly dedicate their lives to caring for and finding homes for this amazing breed. Recently, many dogs (not just Newfies) are being given up by their owners because sadly, they just can’t afford to keep them anymore.
Part of the adoption process includes a home visit, where a current Newfoundland owner checks out a potential adopter’s house. Our home visit went great and when the opportunity to do the same for someone else came up, we jumped on it.
Soon, Michael and I will perform our first Club home visit — with Kodiak in tow — and hopefully do our part to find another Newfie a good home. I can’t even describe the joy Kodiak has brought into our lives and if I can pass that joy onto someone else, I know I’ve done something great.
Confession: I am psyched for the Jon & Kate Plus 8 season finale tonight.
I don’t know what it is about this show. I mean, I can’t watch the Duggers (except for their son’s wedding because…wow), and I don’t have much of an interest in that new one TLC is promoting, Table for 86 or whatever.
But Jon & Kate…I’m hooked.
I think their kids are the cutest things since marshmallow Peeps and I just want to eat the up. Not eat them up like Peeps, though. I don’t like Peeps.
I enjoy the banter between J & K and while I agree that sometimes I think she’s a humungo bitch to him, I think you can tell they still love each other. I’m hoping that the recent rumours in the tabloids that Jon is cheating are lies and that the big drama that the producers are obviously pushing in the finale preview is not a divorce.
Because if Jon & Kate get a divorce I will just die. Die down dead and be sad for those munchable eight children.
Well, maybe not the girl that has crazy mood swings all the time, but the other seven.
“The most important thing in life is to stop saying ‘I wish’ and start saying ‘I will’. Consider nothing impossible, then treat possibilities as probabilities.”
(OK, so it’s off a Starbucks cup. But it’s a message I can really get behind.)
Many moons ago I was stressed while planning for a wedding, then lost my job, got depressed and subsequently forgot to eat.
I was skinny. And not, oh, I feel hot skinny, but oh, none of my clothes/bras fit anymore and I look kind of gaunt in that picture. It wasn’t a purposeful weight loss, but honestly, I wasn’t complaining when I slid easily into the smallest pants I have owned in years.
Not too long ago I had to unbutton those pants.
In a bar.
Seriously.
After my depression lifted I was eating normally again. I didn’t think it was any especially crappy food, but I guess being home all day and having unlimited access to the kitchen equals eating more calories than you realize. And as much time as I had for the gym, I was in one of my patented “but I don’t WANT to go” phases.
That night, at the bar, when I unbuttoned my pants, a friend of mine took a group picture. Which I hate. She still hasn’t posted it on Facebook, because either a) she loves me or b) she forgot. I’m guessing B, but pretending it’s A.
The first place I gain weight is in my face, chest and arms. No hiding it. It’s all BAM! Hey look! Right here! That picture reflected a busty, round faced girl staring back at me that I didn’t recognize.
Now look, I don’t want to look gaunt, but I want to look like I did around Thanksgiving. Happy, healthy, and a few pounds lighter.
So last week I forced myself to the gym (and isn’t it funny how once back I’m all, ooooh I knew I liked it here! Ugh, I’m lame.), and started up the workout routine again. I’m only weighing myself once a week and today is D-Day. Or W-Day, I suppose.
I have realistic expectations and am hoping for a one pound loss. Just one.
I’d like to button those pants again.
