It's not just sex. I've lost the ability to enjoy anything.
Sundays are often challenging around here, when everyone is tired and cranky after a Saturday of "togetherness" and a poor night of sleep. (Rob and I still have this crazy idea that we can stay up late on Friday and Saturday nights, like normal, non-child-having people. It doesn't matter that 10:30 is the new "late." We never get enough sleep. Westley still climbs into bed with us—and thrashes around—every. single. morning. Sometimes it's at the reasonable hour of 5:30 AM. Other times, it's 3:00. On Saturday night, I was just drifting off to sleep around 11:00 PM when he came padding in. I promptly got up and spent the night in his bed. Practically the next thing I knew it was "morning," and Westley had hauled out all his musical instruments for a sunrise concert. And if anyone says anything to me about real sleep deprivation, or how the tiredness is only going to get worse, I will belt that person. Or at least "unfriend" her.) Yesterday, we were going to nip the Sunday Blues in the bud by having a family meeting and Problem Solving. With a 4-1/2-year-old. Because we are delusional. (See also the previous parenthetical essay on sleep troubles.) I asked Westley what fun thing he would like to do for the day, and wrote down his answer—a very official family meeting tactic indeed. Then I asked Rob what he would like to do, and wrote down his answer. When it was my turn, Rob took over the asking, but I couldn't think of a single thing I wanted to do. Not one! I couldn't even think of anything extravagant and impossible. I just sat there, staring at the guys.
You know what I finally settled on—because they were staring back at me, waiting for an answer so we could get on with our stupid family meeting? "Something outside."
Something outside. It wasn't even a "thing," and I didn't really want to do it. But the sunlight was coming in through the blinds being all beautiful and Casablanca-esque, and you're supposed to go outside when it's clear and summery. Especially when you've been hoping for this weather since January. I answered out of desperation and guilt.
The real problem is that when I sit quietly without my family staring at me, I still can't think of anything that I would enjoy doing. Every idea I have gets dismissed on the grounds that it is either way too much work, or it costs a gazillion dollars.
Having this baby is going to cost us a gazillion dollars. The issues with insurance that came up three years ago when we were merely considering possibly maybe having another child are in full swing. Our health insurance does not cover our wonderful midwives. It does not cover home birth. Insurance certainly does not cover food-based vegetarian supplements, herbal tinctures, placenta encapsulation, shamanic healing, postpartum binders, on-call lactation support, or any of the other measures I'm putting in place to keep myself healthy and relatively sane. There are not words to express my gratitude and relief that insurance does cover bi-weekly transvaginal ultrasounds and perinatology appointments. If it didn't, we'd probably have to sell everything we own and move to a tiny house in the woods.
For the record, I'm sure Westley's birth also cost a gazillion dollars, but somehow I didn't notice. Things were much more shaky then. Now we have an actual savings account that, in my role as family treasurer and budgetrix, I get to watch waste away month after month.
Focusing on our finances and the worry that it stirs up in me is a fantastic distraction from so many things. Mostly it keeps me away from my sudden horror at the idea of going through labor again. I know I can do it—I do have a kid now, after all—but wow did the whole thing suck the first time! And recovery? Some days I think I'm still recovering.
I'm supposed to have a birth plan ready for an appointment on Wednesday. And I just...I don't even know. I think written birth plans are kind of stupid. Especially when you have a skilled, low-profile, home birth midwife whom you love to the ends of the Earth (and who seems to think pretty highly of you and your ability to grow and birth babies). Anything I would write down in a birth plan, or a birth "wish list" or "list of birth preferences" if you prefer, is something my midwives are already on board with. That's why they're my midwives! And that's why it's worth it that Rob and I are paying out-of-pocket for my prenatal and postpartum care.
But since I do my best to complete my assignments, here's my birth plan:
Go into labor.
Push out baby.
Cuddle and breastfeed baby.
Take a nap.
That last one may or may not happen, and that's fine. And if I end up with a hospital transport, it will be because the baby or I need special attention. Because things didn't go as planned. Writing up a "hospital birth plan, just in case" seems like a complete waste of time.
If I seem extra cantankerous, it's because my feelings towards life in general have been very negative lately, despite my best efforts. I don't know whether it's lack of restful sleep mixing with pregnancy hormones, or if this is just what "over it" feels like.
The good news—and there is some—is that I'm still doing awesome, health-wise. I'm too big for most of my clothes (hence this week's fall outfit), and I get the teeniest bit of heartburn now and then. Today was the first instance of having to encourage my ring to slide on, but it does still fit! I alternate between completely famished and, "Food? What's that?" And I've eased way up on concerns over the stuff we'll need once the baby arrives. (Except for a diaper bag. I'm suddenly obsessed with what to do about a diaper bag. But that's its own story.) I have also received some lovely care packages from friends in other time zones, which almost makes up for the "all alone, so, so alone" feelings of last week.
Despite fears about Labor: Round Two, and the possibility of Postpartum Depression: The Revenge, I'm actually pretty excited to go through it all again. It makes no sense to me that I'm excited. It's not a sane kind of excitement, that's for sure. But here we are.