vacillation
Yes, I did reach the point where I realized
my life is going to change very very soon.
And with this revelation, I decided that baby can wait as long as he wants to, still tucked away in my womb. The past two, three days I've been chomping at the bit to go into labor and every contraction, every back ache, I think here it is! all hopeful.
I've anticipated labor like a school child anticipates a blizzard, just so I can stay home from that god awful job. Well, I've only got one day left now, and it's not even an overnight. Though I don't want to go in, once it's done it's done.
Now that the terror of work is no longer looming over my head, I can turn my eyes to the state of my house. My house! Good lord. Nothing has been cleaned since the kegger [May 5th], and there are still random drink cups floating around the house. There are footprints on the wall from keg stands. The table is covered in beer residue from turbo cups. Oh, and I found a pair of size 8 white lace panties in the hallway, with a good suspicion on who they belong to. I don't have any friends with a size 8 panty and I won't even jest to Doug about having an fling with someone with that big of a butt. I knew when Dusty and his ridiculously obnoxious girlfriend "disappeared" and the bathroom was occupied for much longer than a pregnant bladder can tolerate what was going on [ew] but COME ON, YOU DON'T HAVE TO LEAVE THE EVIDENCE BEHIND. It's like she wanted to let people know. Again, ew.
Last night, I thought of naming the baby Zephyr. Is that strange? Am I having a relapse? I was always big on strange names growing up but once discovering I was pregnant I decided I wanted something ordinary, but not overly popular. While I tried to convince myself to fall asleep at 8 in the morning following my ridiculous overnight shift, the name came to me. Zephyr Hendrix. Alright, so maybe the Hendrix is a bit overboard, but if you have a first name like Zephyr, it would only be fitting to follow it up with something...more.
No, we probably won't be naming the baby Zephyr anything. I don't think the husband would allow for it.
I'm scared that the baby might be mentally disabled. I haven't mentioned it, really, and I've been pushing the thought aside for the past 9 months. I've had the fear since I was old enough to know about genetics and heredity. My brother is mentally disabled, the only boy in the family. I've always wanted a son, but I've also associated sons with the disability. On some of my worse days, I think that my work with the developmentally disabled and my career path working with the physically disabled is a kind of pay-back for how cruel/uncaring I was to my brother growing up. To my younger self's defense, it could be said that I just didn't realize that my brother was different and therefore tormented him like he tormented me, in that sibling way. And maybe the uncaring I see now was just a little girl who didn't know she was "supposed" to be more sympathetic. It still doesn't excuse the fact that I know next to nothing about my brother, never talk to him, only see him at random family dinners. Though to my defense, as bad as it is, I'm not really close to my family anyways. It's something I work on. Lots of people aren't close to their families. Just because mine includes a brother with a disability shouldn't make it different.
We can't change our genes. We can change ourselves.
I'm feeling ill again.
my life is going to change very very soon.
And with this revelation, I decided that baby can wait as long as he wants to, still tucked away in my womb. The past two, three days I've been chomping at the bit to go into labor and every contraction, every back ache, I think here it is! all hopeful.
I've anticipated labor like a school child anticipates a blizzard, just so I can stay home from that god awful job. Well, I've only got one day left now, and it's not even an overnight. Though I don't want to go in, once it's done it's done.
Now that the terror of work is no longer looming over my head, I can turn my eyes to the state of my house. My house! Good lord. Nothing has been cleaned since the kegger [May 5th], and there are still random drink cups floating around the house. There are footprints on the wall from keg stands. The table is covered in beer residue from turbo cups. Oh, and I found a pair of size 8 white lace panties in the hallway, with a good suspicion on who they belong to. I don't have any friends with a size 8 panty and I won't even jest to Doug about having an fling with someone with that big of a butt. I knew when Dusty and his ridiculously obnoxious girlfriend "disappeared" and the bathroom was occupied for much longer than a pregnant bladder can tolerate what was going on [ew] but COME ON, YOU DON'T HAVE TO LEAVE THE EVIDENCE BEHIND. It's like she wanted to let people know. Again, ew.
Last night, I thought of naming the baby Zephyr. Is that strange? Am I having a relapse? I was always big on strange names growing up but once discovering I was pregnant I decided I wanted something ordinary, but not overly popular. While I tried to convince myself to fall asleep at 8 in the morning following my ridiculous overnight shift, the name came to me. Zephyr Hendrix. Alright, so maybe the Hendrix is a bit overboard, but if you have a first name like Zephyr, it would only be fitting to follow it up with something...more.
No, we probably won't be naming the baby Zephyr anything. I don't think the husband would allow for it.
I'm scared that the baby might be mentally disabled. I haven't mentioned it, really, and I've been pushing the thought aside for the past 9 months. I've had the fear since I was old enough to know about genetics and heredity. My brother is mentally disabled, the only boy in the family. I've always wanted a son, but I've also associated sons with the disability. On some of my worse days, I think that my work with the developmentally disabled and my career path working with the physically disabled is a kind of pay-back for how cruel/uncaring I was to my brother growing up. To my younger self's defense, it could be said that I just didn't realize that my brother was different and therefore tormented him like he tormented me, in that sibling way. And maybe the uncaring I see now was just a little girl who didn't know she was "supposed" to be more sympathetic. It still doesn't excuse the fact that I know next to nothing about my brother, never talk to him, only see him at random family dinners. Though to my defense, as bad as it is, I'm not really close to my family anyways. It's something I work on. Lots of people aren't close to their families. Just because mine includes a brother with a disability shouldn't make it different.
We can't change our genes. We can change ourselves.
I'm feeling ill again.