There is nothing like writing to soothe my soul. Unless I'm suffering from lack of inspiration. Then there is nothing more frustrating than trying to concoct coherence from my thoughts. This is how I feel at this moment. Incoherent. Frustrated.
I swore then I'd never do it again because I'm too self-aware to be put back in that situation by my own consent. Then I found myself at my midwife's office, undressed from the waist down, waiting for a lady with a kind face to examine parts of me that no person should ever have to examine. "My goodness!" She exclaimed as I laid back on the table. "You are already dilated FOUR centimeters!" My heart floated out of my chest. Four centimeters? That's nearly halfway, I thought. With my first pregnancy I was already admitted to the hospital before I reached a four. As my hopeful heart drifted back down into my self so did a sweet hope that by the end of the week I'd be holding my baby boy.
That night I had a panic attack. I had not packed the hospital bag. I still hadn't sewn crib sheets. I had no mattress for the crib. The house was a mess. I wasn't ready. I tried to sleep away the worry but was awoke several times to the fear of my water breaking in bed. Feeling too fragile to move, I laid in bed until the pain of my position prompted a very slow shift to my opposite side. Paul shifted as well, placing his pillow over my face and readjusting his head above mine. I gently pushed him away and gasped for air as my head emerged from beneath his pillow. I hate night time.
The next morning and every subsequent morning after I crawled out of bed, aches and pains wracking my body, and made a rush to the bathroom as usual. As I washed my hands I looked at the mirror and see visible relief and disappointment in the creases of my forehead. I had made it through another rough night, but I was still pregnant.
Today I let them check me again. Still four centimeters. Four stupid centimeters. Four centimeters of false hope and agitation. I may have finally learned my lesson. I'm never letting them check me again. Emotionally, I can't handle it. I let you know next week if I hold on to my resolve. Unless, of course, I actually deliver this baby before then. Fingers crossed!
As I observe progress on our townhouse the impending move is beginning to seem more real. I've started purging, organizing, and making purchases (shower curtain, hooks, rod, etc.) for soon-to-be-occupied rooms that lack basic necessities. The more I look at videos and pictures of my future house, the more I emotionally detach from my current domicile. Yet, my future house is still not complete and having not slept underneath it's roof or broken in the oven with a good batch of cupcakes, it does not feel altogether mine yet. So, while I have a current and future residence, I find myself feeling just a little homeless. Emotionally. Sentimentally.
A couple of weeks ago my mother went back to the Midwest for a work conference. While she was there she was able to visit her family in Southern Illinois. Hearing about her experiences visiting graveyards, being trapped at the grocery store while tornadoes threatened outside, and being caught in a Midwest torrential downpour that makes Utah's storms laughable has me feeling rather homesick for the place of my childhood. I often see pictures of my cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandmothers, and feel so isolated from their world by this Rocky Mountain divide. I yearn to go back. Perhaps being on the cusps of delivery (13 days till my due date) my pregnant instinct is to return to the place of my birth where I found so much joy and comfort, hoping to pass on such pleasantries to my son. Or maybe it's just because I feel homeless.