Funeral for a Friend

Forgive the melodramatic title of this post, Ladies.  The third trimester hormones are rearing their ugly head and I'm starting to feel a little like a high school version of myself who takes everything not only personally, but as a matter of life and death.  In high school my despair was inevitably about some dopey boy or something dramatic that went down at play practice (theater kids being dramatic?  No way...).  These days it's about the UPS driver trying to deliver the crib during times when I explicitly stated no one would be home or the fact that I forgot that I agreed to make a quiche for a school event and the thought of running to the store to get ingredients seems like the most daunting task in the world.

You see, no one has died.  The "friend" I'm referring to is myself- or at least my former self, who is seeming more and more like a distant memory to me these days.  My former self was so motivated and ambitious and perky.  Current Self is a grump who is settling into her after school "Law and Order and peanut butter" routine a little too easily during this home stretch.  Former Self was a busy bee with grand plans for the weekends.  Current Self wants nothing more than a nice romantic Saturday afternoon with the couch and Bravo TV programming On Demand.  Former Self would realize when she was in a slump, create a Master Plan to fix it, implement it, and be back to her healthy and happy ways within a week.  Current Self has made about 10 Master Plans but never makes it to Step 1.

No matter how hard I have tried to be the exception to the pregnancy rule, it seems I can't escape the exhaustion and emotions that go hand and hand with the experience.  I guess I'm not Super Woman.  Crap!  I really, really, really thought that I was.

This past week has been a particular pain in the neck- or to be more accurate, the back.  Baby H has taken up residence on top of my sciatic nerve and it is a new brand of discomfort.  Sometimes I wake (for the 3rd, 4th, or 5th time) to use the bathroom in the middle of the night and I literally hobble there.  I'm sure it would be quite amusing for an outside observer, especially considering the fact that I am usually naked, save for some undies in the middle of the night.  No, I'm not one of "those" girls that feels so comfortable in my own skin that I enjoy sleeping in the buff.  On the contrary, I usually go to bed in flannel pj's and super-comfy-fluffy socks, but by my first trip to the bathroom I feel the uncontrollable need to strip down because I am just so darn hot.  On second thought, it would probably be much more horrifying/disturbing than amusing to the outside observer.

I've been driving to and from work with a baseball between my back and the seat.to try to relieve some of the pressure building up against my spine.  When I lean back just right the electric heat courses down my back and through my thigh.  It's quite the science experience.

Monday morning found me in tears, because I had yet again failed to get up and go to the gym and I was so overwhelmed with my to-do list.  Ivan, ever the problem solver, tried to take control and speak rationally to me.  I don't know about you though, but when I've worked myself into a really good irrational froth, the last thing I want is for someone to try to explain things rationally to me.  I like to marinate in my irrationality.  Also, I could tell that Ivan was a bit amused (not in an unkind way) by my mini-breakdown.  Which is all the more infuriating.  I know that he thinks it's "cute" that I've fallen victim to the dreaded hormones and that I'm such a cliche.  But if there's anything more annoying than someone trying to talk to you rationally when you are enjoying being irrational, it's someone telling you that you're adorable when you're clearly distressed and may or may not have snot on your face because you never really learned to cry in an attractive way.

I ended up missing my mother-in-law's birthday dinner this week because I was such a mess.  If you know me, and I think you do, you know that I do NOT like to miss social occasions.  The idea of my friends or family or, God forbid, my friends and family hanging out without me is enough to give me an ulcer.  Apparently, I have always been this way.  I've been told tales of how, when I was a baby, an entire room full of people would need to sit silently in the dark while I was being put to sleep because the anxiety I felt from missing the party would be enough to make me a screaming terror.  The point is, that it is completely unlike me to miss a social engagement- especially one where there is sure to be delicious food.  This is what I mean when I said, "Funeral for a Friend"- I feel like I'm parting ways forever with the woman I used to be.

The woman I used to be was a really good wing-woman for my single girlfriends.  Not that there are many of them left, but I always prided myself on the idea that even though I was an "old married woman" I could be counted upon for fun nights out at bars or dancing- with or without Ivan.  And I'm hating myself now, because post-10pm is starting to feel like the middle of the night, what are you nuts? 

And let's face it, it's not going to get any easier.

It seems just a little unfair that immediately after your pregnancy, during which you gave up your regular activities (drinking, eating cold cuts, staying out late, wearing cute clothes, going on roller coasters- okay, not an every day occurrence, but still, wearing high heels) you are catapulted into a whole new realm of exhaustion which includes sleep deprivation, being peed on, pooped on, spit up on, sore, leaky boobs, not showering, still not going out late or wearing cute clothes.  When all is said and done, it's well over a year before you may start to feel somewhat normal again.  And even then- and this fact is just beginning to dawn on me- you are never the same person you once were.

The thing is, it all happened so fast that I feel like I never got to say good-bye.  Maybe it's the fact that women of my generation are waiting later and later to have kids.  We are establishing ourselves in our careers and our lives as individuals, for the most part, much later than our mothers did.  We are finding it harder and harder to say goodbye to the person we've worked so hard to become.

I should temper the melodrama by admitting that I do not do well with change- I never have.  My high school graduation pictures are ridiculous because my face is tear stained, blotchy and red.  I think I was depressed during my entire first year of teaching out of mourning for my college life.  I literally sobbed as I packed up my dinky little apartment to start my life as a married woman in a new, beautiful house.

 But now, I barely think of that apartment- save for when I drive by it and see evidence of someone else living there (they don't even have the air conditioner in the right window- how dumb are they?).  I love my house so, so much.  Each and every day I am grateful to live there and I tell Ivan how much I love it on a weekly basis.  I'd be happy there for the rest of my life.

Now, I go to RU football games and I'm appalled by the college students. The apartment I lived in for junior and senior year, which, at the time, seemed like a palace now appears to be what it actually is- a dump that I'd be scared to walk into.  And while I'll never turn down a free meal swipe at the dining hall (cough, cough Cousin that lives close to Neilson) the college lifestyle- while amazing and perfect for that time of my life- is simply not appealing anymore.

And I think it goes without saying that you could not pay me enough money to go back to high school.  Ever.

So, I guess the moral of the story is that while I'm mourning my Former Self I'm actually just making way for Current Self (who is a little emotionally confused mess for the moment) to become Future Self.  If my past is any indication, the next step will be so much better than from whence I came- complete with a fabulous little new person to bring sunshine into my days.  Baby H is already bringing countless daily smiles to me as he or she maniacally kicks and punches and hiccups- even during the middle of the night.  At the size of a Chinese cabbage (I had to look it up too) it's no wonder that the movement is so noticeable now.  As Former self fades, I'm seeing glimmers of Future Self and she's happy.

Still, it's nice to acknowledge Former Self- she was pretty cool and she served me well for several decades.  And just as High School Self, College Self, and My Own Apartment Self all helped form Current Self and all make appearances from time to time, I'm sure Future- Mom Self will be a product of all that has come before her.  And while some things will never be the same again, I can take solace in the fact that my future holds turkey sandwiches, an occasional glass of red wine, and by God- there will be high heels.