The last six months, trimesters two and three, were spent worrying. I worried that I was doing something wrong. My diet wasn’t healthy enough. I was too old. Every time I bent slightly to pick up something off the floor I worried I accidentally squished Baby disfiguring him forever. The more crazy the scenario, the more I worried. Continue reading
I’ve got two more weeks of being held captive by the little eight-pound warden residing in my swollen uterus. And now that I’m on bed rest, I’ve got nothing but time to reflect on the last nine months: the good, the bad, and the seriously deranged.
In recent months, I’ve learned to be grateful for the simple things in life such as the ability to bend at the waist. Will leaving whatever I just dropped on the floor hurt anyone? Do I really need to wear socks or shoes or, hell, pants for that matter? Bending over might kill me or squish Baby Boy or kill me! Holy crap that hurts. Continue reading
Monday evening I got kicked in the face. Or did I allow myself to get kicked in the face? Or did I attack my friend’s boot with my eye socket? Personal responsibility can be rather painful.
Setting the stage:
I was at rehearsal, doing my best to portray demonic Cheryl in Evil Dead the Musical. Cheryl pretty much lives in the cellar, locked away by her brother Ash. On cue, I raised the cellar door just enough to stick my face out of the hole in the floor. I peered forward and for a split second, I saw Ash’s boot directly in front of my…holy mother of…that was my eye or eye socket or some part of my face that at one moment was perfect and then…breathe…crap that hurts…breathe dammit…don’t cry…try not to cry…fine, cry, maybe crying will make the pain stop! Continue reading