The fight ends. I’ve been fighting on two fronts these past few weeks.
Front # 1: After fighting with the doctor and talking it over with ANYONE who would listen, I’ve finally come to the realization I can’t avoid having a C section this time around either. Unless I want to fly to Canada and have the baby there. Actually…it would save us some money…something to think about. Either way I’ve lost the fight for a VBAC in Texas.
For now the nurse called to confirm the time and date of the surgery and I’ve been busy researching how to have as ‘gentle’ a C section as possible. And to get better as fast as humanly possible. It isn’t that I HATE hospitals.
Actually, yeah, I do. They’re sterile and smelly and joyless. They’re also hectic and boring and loud and disruptive. I heal faster at home, surrounded by people I love, eating food that heals and resting in my own (much more comfy) bed. And cuddling with Toby.
Not to mention dealing with not fun flashbacks of a few of my teenage years. Flashbacks both intense and boring at the same time. Some funny, like the time I was watching a movie with my friends (AND MY BOYFRIEND) when the nurse popped her head in the room and asked me if I had a bowel movement yet today and if I needed to ‘soak my bum’. I remember staring at her perky but obviously clueless face as the movie played on and my friends (AND MY BOYFRIEND) tried to pretend they didn’t hear that. And I wished to die, right there, right then, even though I now knew that could very well be possible. Cancer was one thing but asking a 16 year old girl if she POOPED TODAY in front of her friends AND HER BOYFRIEND was also terrible, horrible, and end of life embarrassing.
I digress. I want to be at home as soon as possible. Although the nurse probably WILL ask me if I pooped yet today (because they do that) in front of my husband…that’s actually ok. Because I probably didn’t. And Bill knows that because I probably complained about it to him. (Bill I haven’t pooped in TWO DAYS!) Because we talk about that stuff with each other. Because I’m not a 16 year old girl anymore, trying to be cool. Or as cool as you can be hooked up to an IV and minus any hair on your head.
I digress yet again.
I have to share this dream with you. My dreams have been pretty crazy lately and last night’s was no exception. I was traveling home by plane to visit mom and dad after the birth of my baby GIRL. (Which is odd because I’m convinced it’s a boy…but apparently dream-me thinks it’s a girl.)
I didn’t have my baby girl number 2 with me on the plane you know why? Because Bill had booked the BABY on another flight entirely. In the cargo hold. To. Save. Money.
SO. I sat in that plane seat and I worried and I fretted and finally I jumped up with Ellie and told them I had to leave. I raced through the airport looking for the other flight my baby girl was on. I found her. In the cold cargo hold of the other plane. With some chickens. When I scooped her up from the concrete floor she was only wrapped in a thin blanket. “She’s fine.” The airline employee said, rolling her eyes.
I found the desk to check her out and the man shook his head and said, “You’ll have to pay the fee for the baby then. Your husband was trying to save some money. Now you’ll have to pay the $64 fee for carrying the baby on the plane with you.” I told him I’d happily pay the fee.
Boys was I mad at Bill in THAT dream. And again when I woke up. “Do you know what you tried to do to save a few bucks!?” I asked him in the morning. He thought the dream was hilarious.
Boys was I mad at Bill in THAT dream. And again when I woke up. “Do you know what you tried to do to save a few bucks!?” I asked him in the morning. He thought the dream was hilarious.
I suspect the dream is normal new-baby jitters combined with our recent struggles over the thermostat. For the first time in my whole life…I need it cooler at night in order to sleep. We’ve been fighting over 79 vs 76. 3 degrees of extra air conditioning so I can sleep better at night. At first I was waiting until he got to bed and sneaking out to turn it down. No, really. It’s just easier to sneak around to do what I want. But I got ‘caught’ one day last week. Which brings me to:
Fight Front # 2:
Fight Front # 2:
“Angela!” He said sternly. “Did you turn up the air conditioner?” (He’s stern AND surprised.) I’m kind of surprised myself. Normally it isn’t worth the fight. (Does anyone else fight over this!?) I have to admit the ‘stern’ in his voice makes me want to stick my tongue out at him and go get a tattoo of a butterfly on my butt.
“Yessss!” I said, actually relieved to be caught. I’m tired of hiding!
“I’m pregnant and I get to decide what temperature it needs to be in here for the next 3 months.” I’m on the verge of…I don’t know, a revolution, a revolt, a bitter rebellion if he tries to fight me on this. He must see the crazy in my eyes because he wisely backs down.
“I’m pregnant and I get to decide what temperature it needs to be in here for the next 3 months.” I’m on the verge of…I don’t know, a revolution, a revolt, a bitter rebellion if he tries to fight me on this. He must see the crazy in my eyes because he wisely backs down.
Over the weekend he tried to tell me Ellie was too cold. Don’t be fooled! This is because he knows I will suffer any hardship to ensure she is not uncomfortable in any way. His logic breaks down when I remind him he wasn’t worried about her being cold when he set the temperature at 68F at night through the winter. (Which it does NOT get here in sunny Texas thank goodness). There were many late-night temperature changes then, too.
It’s nice we can talk about something as intimate (and gross) as bowel movements with each other and yet each sneak behind the other’s back to turn up (or down) the AC. Back and forth. Back and forth, neither saying a word about it again.
Until I’m 75 and he’ll be like 87 and too frail to get up every night to turn the heat back down after I turned it back up, again. Hurray for frail old men being married to slightly less frail, moderately younger women. We will win in the end girls, yes we will.
Until I’m 75 and he’ll be like 87 and too frail to get up every night to turn the heat back down after I turned it back up, again. Hurray for frail old men being married to slightly less frail, moderately younger women. We will win in the end girls, yes we will.
Angela Yeh - Fantasy Author. Dragon Enthusiast. Optimist. 