The things we do for love

If you’ve ever read any of my previous nonsense from the last few years, you would know I am a person who has an unnatural relationship with food. Unholy, even. An emotional eater for most of my life, one would think I’d use my pregnancy anxiety as an excuse to go hog wild since I pretty much use any excuse I can find to go hog wild. The sun is shining? FRIED CHICKEN. The Earth is round? CHEESEBURGER. I’m alive? BURRITO.  You’re alive? CAKE.

All you cant eat? Don't mind if I do!

But, no. I’m not using my pregnancy to stuff my face because a history of poor food choices has landed me in the category of “DUMB-DUMB: AT RISK FOR EVERY COMPLICATION”.

I’m actually doing well in this department, surprisingly enough. The desire to bring this girl home safe and sound is stronger than the pull of 1000 Twinkies hand delivered to me by a fully clothed Jon Snow with a half-nude Tyrion Lannister hoisted upon his shoulders.  I don’t want to make any bad decisions that could possibly hurt this little girl, so I’ve been really good about what I put into my body. I do it for her.

Only being at the halfway point of this pregnancy, I have a hell of a long way to go, so I’ve tried to break the time down into smaller epochs. “If I can just” is my theme song these days:

·   If I can just get to 24 weeks, that’s viability.

·   If I can just get to get to 28 weeks, she would have a 98% chance of survival.

·   If I can just get to 30 weeks, she’d still have a long NICU stay, but survival would pretty much be a mathematical certainty.

·   If I can just get to 37 weeks, we will be home free.

That’s days and days of wondering if we’ll make it through. Months, weeks – it may as well be 100 years. Time loses all sense of meaning and direction when you want something so bad, and you can sort of see the finish line, but also all the monsters that want to eat you along the way.

So what the hell is a food addict to do if she can’t turn to the one thing that’s always made life more manageable, albeit with a BMI that floats somewhere between obese and a category that has yet to be defined?  Since the usual suspects are no longer an option (chicken nuggets, fries, questionable Chinese food, a dozen donuts, etc.), I’ve found multiple ways to distract myself:

1. Folding cranes and selling them on Etsy - I’ve put a temporary hold on this as I was getting too nervous making cranes for people who wanted to pay me

2. Teaching myself how to knit using chopsticks – because chopsticks were all I had when the sudden urge struck to learn how to knit

3. Crocheting - except I pretty much only know one pattern and that’s just going straight until I have a long chain that extends 2 flights of stairs. I finally was able to come up with this, though!

Behold! A scarf that offers no protection against the cold because it's so small

4. Turning wooden dolls into my favorite fictional characters – and this is as far as I got before becoming paralyzed with fear over what to do with the remaining 48 blank wooden dolls I bought.

Claire and Jamie from Outlander need some work!

5. Faux calligraphy -  not real calligraphy because real calligraphy requires special pens. I bought a sketch pad to write down positive thoughts and quotes to help keep me motivated!  I focus so hard on practicing my letters that I don’t notice the time pass by, only the faint stirrings of tenosynovitis.

6. Adult coloring books - and by adult I don’t mean the sex kind. I quickly lost interest after the first page I didn’t finish coloring. It’s kinda hard.

7. And a crapload of Netflix – Oh Netflix, most of your content is so terrible! There is not one good horror movie in the bunch. NOT ONE. And beware – I got super mixed up between two shows both entitled “Love”. One is a comedy, the other is some straight up pornography. We’re talking penis coming directly through the screen at an alarming rate of speed and trajectory type pornography (it was shot in 3D according to IMDB).

Anyway, these are just some of my coping mechanisms: partially completed crafts and porn. Just kidding – that was a one, maybe two-time, mistake.  Most of this has amounted to an incredible sum of money spent on Amazon, for which the high of receiving these craft items was only temporary since I quickly realized I was pretty bad at crafts. But what else am I gonna do for the next 4, 8, 10, 17 weeks while on limited mobility?

Nate: What are you planning to do with all these boxes?

Me: You're going to build me a fort. There are more in the closet.

In all honesty, pregnancy is really, really hard on my body, not just my mind.  Clearly, based on my track record, I’m not very good at it. I wish I could be one of those crazies people who claims to love the experience, but what the hell?!  Between alternating bouts of crippling constipation, violent diarrhea, and more gas than a small Middle Eastern nation, where on earth does anyone find the energy to enjoy pregnancy?  

Oh, pardon my excessive flatulence - it's a pregnancy thing. Excuse me while I bottle it all up as a remembrance of things passed

But you know what? I'll put up with all of it – ALL OF IT – for as long as it takes in order to bring my girl home in the end. I would do anything for her.  Even if it means never being able to say “I love you, let’s run away together” to another slice of Tuxedo cheesecake from the Cheesecake Factory ever again.

HAVE MERCY