When I was in college, and sharing a room with Lauren, we used to lay in our respective beds and talk about what was on our minds. Lauren and I were very different in many ways but one thing that bonded us as roommates and friends was our ability to worry about the smallest of things. We'd stay awake for hours after we climbed into bed, worrying aloud (and also internally) about test scores and sorority reports and boys and the weather and everything in between. I don't know if Lauren still does this, this late-night act of mulling over the good and the bad of life, but I know I do. Although it's no longer limited to nighttime. I worry too much, too often. In the car, at my desk, on the couch, washing the dishes, over the small and the big.
I'm on bed rest for a very small pregnancy-related issue. It seems the baby is fine. The doctor isn't concerned, and other than a very strong (albeit brief!) episode of hysterical sobbing yesterday afternoon, I'm fine, too. I'm actually rather calm today, and I'm not worrying and THIS IS NOT NORMAL. Just this weekend I worried about Molly dying of heat stroke in our very centrally air-conditioned house. WHAT IF THE HEAT SCORCHES HER THROUGH THE WINDOWS?
After spending the first month or so of this pregnancy wound up so tightly—so sure we were going to have this gift snatched from our hands that I couldn't even journal about it, afraid that simple act would jinx it—I've decided that what I can control, I will and what I can't, I have to let go of.
Worrying comes naturally to me, yes, but I've wanted this too badly to worry it away. I'm going to act unnaturally and just breathe.
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When Mike and I began dating, I remember tightly grabbing hold of all the sweet things he would say to me because each one was so new and unexpected. I remember those early sweet moments so vividly, each one saturated in emotion and excitement. One night, very early on, he called me about twenty minutes after he had gotten off work to invite me over to watch a movie. As we sat on his couch he turned to me, out of nowhere, and said, "Every day when I get off work, I try to see how long I can wait before I call you, before I have to talk to you. I never make it more than a half hour." Then he turned back and continued watching whatever it was we were watching. I didn't dare say a word. I didn't want to ruin the perfect, butterflies-slamming-around-my-stomach moment.
Another time, early on, he told me he thought I was strong and I impressed him with what I could handle. I thought he was nuts and wrong. Although it took a while, I finally began to see myself the way Mike saw me in those early days.
Even though it's nice to come home when I'm terrified about the ins and outs of pregnancy with Mike here, waiting for me with reassuring research and water and a blanket and soft eyes, reminding me we're fine, we'll be fine. We'll handle this, he says.
But unlike before, I believe him. I know what we are—what I am—capable of.
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My blog posting has been sporadic the last few weeks. I hope to be back to cluttering your feed readers soon enough. Thanks for bearing with me until then.
For now, I'm lounging on the couch, watching back seasons of Veronica Mars and new All my Children episodes (Annie, you're really starting to annoy me). And promising Mike that McDonald's cheeseburgers ARE HEALTHY FOR THE BABY, BABY!
I'll also be journaling. Jinxing be damned.