Mike left this Saturday for an eight-day trip to Chicago for work. He was in Chicago the week before that for four days for an interview. And a few weeks, I’ll be leaving for three days. At the risk of sounding whiny, I miss him. I am quite independent, so I appreciate the alone time – but it’s just odd not seeing Mike in the mornings and cuddling as I fall asleep (that is, until he tells me he’s getting claustrophobic and needs space. Does this make you think of the “hug-and-roll”? If so, let’s be friends.). I like having him around. I like eating dinner together while we enjoy the hilarity that is Freaks and Geeks. I like teasing him about using the bathroom too long in the morning. I like kissing him goodbye. I like sharing my day with him when we get home. I like hearing him next to me when I wake up in the middle of the nights. I like being able to stretch my legs until my feet meet his under the covers. It’s comforting.
After he left, I drove down to my parents and enjoyed a day of eating lunch with grandparents, cousins, and aunts, catching up with my little sister (who had a Serious Talk with me about why we should move to their little city instead of Chicago. She’s really just looking out for our best interests. This has nothing to do with the fact that she is planning to be our unborn child’s live-in nanny. Really.), watching four episodes of Project Runways on their DVR, playing entirely too much Wii Fit, winning a game of Monopoly Junior (the superior Monopoly, for sure) and dying my little brother’s hair. I also talked with my parents a bit about the baby, our plans, and money worries. It’s comforting to know they’ve so been there with all of this. Except that they were twenty, newly married, and without college degrees when they found out they were pregnant with me. That would be enough to give me a serious ulcer.
Today marks six months from my *official* due date. Just six months ago, I was getting used to my new job, its longer hours, and the accompanying overwhelm that came with it. That seems like yesterday. Six months seems really, really short. Holy wow.
My belly is bigger, noticeably sticking out, though I estimate about 80% of it is chub. And it still brings me nausea. Not daily, but the whole “I’m hungry! No, I’m nauseous! Eat! NOW! OR I WILL BARF!” routine gets old. Especially when I’ve woken up in the middle of the night for the past three nights needing to eat. At least I didn’t have to bother Mike as I padded out to the kitchen at two in the morning, poured myself a bowl of cereal, and climbed into bed to read twenty pages of my book. Ahh, the glamor that is pregnancy. (Secretly, though? I’m sort of fascinated by my body right now. Total navel gazer, you know?)
I also had a much-appreciated moment of clarity and gratitude today. This afternoon, as we walked out to the school bus to take the students to their tutoring service, a twenty-something stopped my coworker and they chatted for a while. When my coworker came on the bus, she told me, “She applied for the job you have.”
She went on to tell me what a fabulous individual she was when she was a student there – and was visibly regretful they could not have offered her something. (Not that I think she was regretful they hired me in any way – she has just told me before there were many qualified candidates for my position.) It took me aback – I think sometimes I take for granted how lucky I got to land this job. I may complain about long hours or struggle with the commute – but on a day like today, when I spent three hours hanging out 17-year-olds talking about everything from being a vegetarian and nuclear disarmament activists to parents and school, then got to see adorable first graders at the tutoring program, I’d say I’ve lucked out as far as day jobs go.
I needed that perspective.
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