Two years ago or so today, I was at the OB's office finding out I was 1cm dialated and only a little effaced. Sure, she said, you can finish your last week at the office, just listen to your body and take it easy. What fateful words as my water broke AT WORK only 4 days later. With fictional child #2, when I have a similar visit, I'm just going to up and shut down, locking myself in the house with nesting activities and chocolate ice cream, only leaving to go to the movies (lots) and get a manicure and pedicure and a leg and bikini wax in preparation for the labor and delivery room.
Thinking back has made me sad in two ways. First, sad that my baby is growing up. Two seems like such a huge milestone, more so than my 30th. No longer will we count her age in months. She's two. And can tell you and almost show you with her little fingers (we've been practicing). Over the next year she's going to become even more verbal, she'll start school, start sunday school, we'll be able to do more arts and crafts and make christmas cookies won't be quite the kitchen disaster that it was this year. It's exciting, really, to watch her blossom into a little person, but it's sad because she's not a baby. If I've ever wanted a second child in the past two years, I want it most now. I miss that snuggly little sweet smelling creature. I miss the bald head that was so soft and the toothless grin. But I also love the ponytails and big cheesey smile I get everytime the camera comes out.
Natalie's birthday also makes me sad as I don't feel like I have personally gotten anywhere. Two years in and I still can't fit in my pre-pregnancy clothes and I'm 20lbs heavier than I was last year at this time. Sure, a lot has happened - I was diagnosed with depression, started meds, started better meds, found a thyroid nodule and am no on a better combination of thyroid mes, so yea, on one level, that's a lot of good things going on; I'd hate to still be back where I was a year and a half ago, so blue, so unable to get my shit together. But I'm still drained by the effort it has taken to get to now. The doctors visits, the wacky periods, the crying, exhaustion, insomnia, more crying, blood tests, sonograms, more blood tests, more exhaustion. It still makes it hard to get on the bandwagon with exercise and eating right. Sure, I don't *have* to nap everyday anymore, but it doesn't necessarily mean I suddenly want to spend that time nibbling celery while doing yoga. I'd rather curl up with a good book and ice cream. Maybe that's just the way I am. But I know if I keep it up, I'll be 400lbs in no time. I look at my closet at all the clothes that don't fit and get so depressed. I avoid looking in the mirror. I gag at the family pictures we just got back from Christmas - my double chin and bulky figure is horrid next to my stick figure sister in law and my slender sister in law (yes, there is a difference). This isn't how I pictured myself as the mother of a two year old. I sometimes feel like I just don't know what to do anymore.