Reality is going to bitch slap me again. My days of laziness and self-indulgent sniveling are about to come to an end. Mom, who flew out on Christmas day to hang out and eat deliciously crappy food and listen to me whine, will be flying back home Tuesday, after which I'll promptly return to work. Sigh.
In the last month, I have truly mastered the art of laziness. Before pregnancy #5, I was merely a novice, despite my illusions of grandeur. When I started bleeding and spotting shortly after the pregnancy was confirmed, I panicked and planted my ass (which has, surprisingly, not doubled in size) on the couch. There it has remained, with very few excursions: doctor's visits, surgery, and little else. At first, my lazy days were worry filled, but fabulous. I still thought cletus the fetus had a chance, and I was determined to give it to him (I'm pretty sure cletus was a boy. Call it semi-mother's intuition). I ate healthy food, drank lots of water, peed a lot, read lots of books (thanks to fabulous friends who gave me the whole Sookie Stackhouse series - you rock!) and watched plenty of the true crime shows Hubby hates. I told Hubby that if he denied me anything I would take pictures of the bruises on my belly caused by those fabulous lovenox injections and report him for spousal abuse, so of course he was wrapped around my little finger. This was probably quite difficult for him, since laziness is one of the things we have in common, and I'm sure I was fairly demanding. Laziness, at that point, was a Good Thing.
Then came the Tearful Tuesday, when we found out that little cletus inherited our laziness, and planted his lazy ass in my fallopian tube. What a stinker! I'm sure we would have gotten along famously! After surgery, laziness was clearly not a choice - I was in pain and nodding off like a junkie every five minutes from my narcotics for the first couple of days, and have been hobbled by sadness ever since. I have absolutely no desire to do anything other than sit on the couch. I know that I need to move on and just get off the fucking couch already, but I can't. And Tuesday looms, two weeks from Tearful Tuesday, when Mom will leave and I'll go to work and pretend to be normal and fight back tears all day. Wednesday brings the follow up appointment at the RE's, and two parties, neither of which I want to attend. But I will, for Hubby's sake. The boy needs to play with his friends, and he's too sweet to leave me all alone on New Year's Eve, even if I beg and plead (I can't play the spousal abuse card anymore - the bruises are too faded).
Life goes on, even as my world crashes around me.