Bad Friday

Ordinarily, when WonderBaby gets sick - which is to say, every single time she has ever gotten sick - you wouldn't know it to look at her. She remains bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and ever-inclined to climb bookcases and o'er-leap small sectionals and such, and while this can be very, very frustrating, it nonetheless keeps worry at bay.

Which is why today, I'm worried. She is feverish - which happens - and limp-limbed and quiet and malaised - which never, ever happens, not with her.

So off to the hospital we go. This is the part of parenting that sucks the most, the very most: the knots of worry that pull at your gut, that sicken you, when there seems to be something wrong with your child, something that you can't figure out but you know is bad. I hate this.

UPDATE: Infected tonsils; possibly strep throat; very definitely sick, sick, sick and contagious (which means, mommy-kisses need to be limited). Have to wait and see how she responds to treatment now. Poor baby. POOR MOMMY.

29 Weeks

My current profile. Which resembles what, exactly?


a) A clutch of environmental protest balloons?

b) The dark side of the moon as depicted in velvet geek art?

Or, c) Alfred Hitchcock's silhouette?

And, should I be disturbed that I have ten-plus weeks to go and already have the proportions of massive helium-inflated objects, the fifth-largest natural satellite in our solar system, and a dead, obese film director?

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Pregnancy. Sucks.

You know? It just really, really does. And this is supposed to be the honeymoon period, isn't it? Where you revel in second-trimester glowiness, free of the first-trimester barf-exhaustion-anxiety trifecta and not yet at the third-trimester combo of intense fatigue and just-so-sick-of-this-ness? Why didn't I get me some of that? Somehow, I managed to land myself in a second trimester that has been marked by dizziness and fainting and boob rashes and mood swings. (Yes, I am still crumpling to the floor, even having put myself on a strict diet of iron-rich everything grilled in a cast-iron skillet followed by iron-supplements chased with iron-enriched soy milk. Which means that I have to go back to the doctor for more probes, which, you know, SUCKS, and have I mentioned about the suckage?)

Which, come to think of it: I'm not even in my second-trimester anymore. I am in my third trimester oh my hell. What happened? Where did my honeymoon period go, why wasn't I there to enjoy it and what is up with my brain cells that I can't even keep track of how far along I am?

Am going to back to bed. Will catch up with you all later when I am not so fucking whiny and full of miserableness. And when, maybe, I can say something more substantive than 'I suck at this.' (Although perhaps not quite so substantive as last week's 80's-pop-obsession-with-nuclear-war-fueled-my-teen-angst post, which really made the crickets sing. Which, you know, I totally get.) Anyway. Maybe I'll have a fig newton, and then go back to bed. You know, so that I can wake up later all cheerful and go-get-'em and shit. I'll be better company then.

(A question, though, totally sincere-like: is it just seriously bad mojo to be miserable in pregnancy? Am I sending all of my bitchy-vibes directly down through my blood stream and into my uterus where they are toxifying the fetal environment? And, is this all evidence of my general weakness as a human being? Why can I not do this without complaining, loudly and interminably? Help?)