Monday, March 29, 2004
The Orange
A week or so ago I was attempting to eat dinner when my little boy picked up an orange and lobbed it at my chest somehow. I say "somehow" because I didn't really see it happen. My fork was mid-way to my nauseous mouth when I was hit.
In my defense, this orange was a good size and particularly solid. Also, I am overflowing with pregnancy hormones and pity for myself. In addition, my son sometimes does weird things that make me constantly wonder whether he's normal or not, which is just another way I try to gauge what kind of parent I actually am. And I'm not always sure of myself.
So when this unexpected orange thudded against my chest I was so shocked that all I could do was cry. Yes, I started bawling because my son threw an orange at me.
I looked at him wondering what in creation had just occurred. He only stared back at me in astonished silence. I couldn't get enough air for crying (and because the gut monkey has taken my lungs hostage with her big ol' 4-pound baby butt).
A few seconds of looking at one another passed when he jumped up and ran to the bathroom. I heard him retching into the toilet puking up all his dinner.
He was so upset that he hit me with the orange that he became physically ill.
I have never been a puker (outside of HG), and it must take some powerful emotion to elicit the vomiting response. I didn't know whether to be disturbed or flattered. And while I don't know exactly what to think, I am glad that he didn't just sit there looking at me with no reaction at all, because that would be psychotic. Sorta like me.
Sometimes that's the reaction I have when he is in pain; I just shut off and sit there looking at him. I link this response to the HG-related second trimester termination of my first pregnancy, because a) it involves not being present to the concept of my children in distress and b) abortion is where that response began.
I need to be more aware of that and work to eliminate it. I need to push through my self-preserving "necessary" numbness 100% of the time when my children are in pain. I need to make sure I model the appropriate response so that my children don't become emotionless, orange-lobbing menaces to society.
Anyway, it turns out he was winding up the orange like a pitcher when the bigger-than-his-hand orb simply slipped free and went zinging through the air. It was an accident; he honestly was as surprised as I.
So that's the deal with the orange.
I am 32 weeks and currently working on the first day of not only the rest of my life but also the 33rd week. These last three weeks of bed rest are not going to go by quickly. My prediction is based on the fact that yesterday was a month long and thoughts of being mired to the bed all day today cause beads of sweat to pop out on my upper lip.
My husband tells me I'm in the last stretch and not to worry about it. And then he grumbles over tending to the "pee pot" when he gets home from work, so he sort of lacks that jolly sincerity he tries to otherwise convey re: the nearness of the end of this entire hellacious ordeal.
19 more days of bed rest (not counting the rest of today, and let's not).
I missed my vitamin the night before last and suffered cat litter cravings more than usual yesterday. I have found that Mylanta Mint Flavored gas pills have the texture of what I imagine is cat litter when crunched and the added bonus of chalky goodness that lately I love so well.
Tomorrow I will tell you about the tree outside my window.
