I'm leaving for the airport in about a half hour—although my flight is already delayed 15 minutes and before I even board, I'll owe the airline something like $50, making this travel day already chock full of fun—and Mike is still asleep in the other room, snoring and curled up with nine pillows and our dog.
I've been looking forward to this trip for almost a year now and, yet, now that it's upon me, a part of me doesn't want to go. To be honest, I really don't feel well, and I know I didn't invent pregnancy and am not the first one to struggle through her days and nights with a nauseous stomach and a neverending desire to just go to bed—wait, I just woke up a half hour ago? Well, it's certainly been a grueling thirty minutes.
I don't know if I can put into words how excited I am to be pregnant. There are some instances in life where words fail—the right ones just don't yet exist—but feeling like this can depress a person fairly quickly because there's just so much one cannot do when they are continually throwing up their lunch (sorry for that visual). I would really hate if next weekend is sort of awfully tainted by how sick I could very well be. I hope I'm being overly dramatic. I hope my adrenaline pushes me forward and causes me to forget the nausea and exhaustion. I hope this doesn't turn out to be a very (very) expensive trip filled with the exact same things I could be doing at home—napping and complaining.
There has been one consistent force pushing me on through the last few weeks and that's Mike. He is supportive, funny, caring, comforting and he is each one when I need it most. And, unfortunately, he doesn't fit in my carry-on bag. A conference full of my favorite bloggers just didn't entice him to jump on a plane as easily as it did me, but he was always encouraging of this trip, of me having a week to myself to enjoy some family, the city I grew up in, the people I've come to really care for but haven't yet had the pleasure to meet. My husband is so many frustrating and fist-clenching things, but there is no one in my life who accepts me just as I am without a word of criticism.
When I mentioned to Mike—months and months ago—that there were some husbands out in the blogosphere who weren't as supportive of this typing habit as he was and that many of them even thought it was crazy, he said to me, "Well, baby, it is kind of crazy, but I knew crazy was what I was getting into with you."
And that's just how it goes with us—we are who we are and the other one never asks why. But I sort of forget, sometimes, how much I enjoy being with Mike until I'm faced with eight days away from him. I will have fun—vomiting or not—and so will he—a house and a DVR to himself—but it doesn't dull the fact that I'll miss him. That I already do.
So, I'm off. A little nervous, slightly hesitant and, yes, excited too. Sometimes it's just best to admit all of that beforehand.