I wrote on the Book of Face today that I’ve officially packed too much into a seven day period of time. One week ago today, I was reveling in relief that the doctor who will (WILL) monitor the progress of my Maybe Baby was supportive and ready to take me on. By that evening, I was in a different part of the state, enjoying an outdoor fire pit and roasted marshmallows with my best friend, telling her of my day. The next day I slipped down a flight of stairs and jacked up my foot and leg something fierce. I’ve tried to put it out of mind, let it heal and keep moving. Monday was a drive home and arguments with my failure-to-launch nephew by phone in the middle of a mountain pass, my foot throbbing. Tuesday and Wednesday were catching up at work and dealing with emotions… I miss my best friend terribly. Thursday was a day spent traveling again, this time by plane, across the state and back again; a staff retreat packed into the hours between. All of this is good, but I’m exhausted. Like, crying exhausted. And that has me worried.
First… as my maternal-fetal medicine doctor said, “Pregnancy is, as my wife is fond of saying, a young woman’s game.” I’m not young. I’m not OLD, but there are days I see it coming for me. Like when I’m hobbling through an airport, cursing the weight of my laptop as I walk funny from the medical boot I’m wearing to protect my foot.
Second… I was reminded all week how I’m FAT. Slipping down stairs is a tricky thing for any “normal” person. But for me, it’s almost always a disaster. I got lucky this time, just mashing some toes, spraining them and my ankle and knee… I can’t help but wonder if I’d have been less injured were I not a fat cow. Then, yesterday, was a never-ending stress bath. I woke up late, had the brilliant idea to drive myself to the airport and park there for the day. I forgot to account for Seattle traffic at 6:30am. By the time I made it to the airport parking garage and had trouble finding a parking place that wasn’t a mile from the terminal (my poor foot!), I had a full on panic attack. I’m wearing long sleeves so Partner does not see the scratches I gave myself in that attack. Parked and headed to TSA, I’m in line. It’s my turn for the scans. I was put in the “stick-’em-up” machine and pulled aside for a pat down. I didn’t realize the fucking thing was a DENSITY scanner too. I’m fat, I’m pretty sure I will always BE fat… so I will always be subject to this invasive procedure? At least the Agent had the grace to not look me in the face when I observed that I was getting the treatment due to the way I carry my belly fat. On to the next humiliation… A puddle-jumper prop jet. At least the flight was not full at all and they had to spread us out, I had two seats to myself. The ride home six hours later was worse. I had to be scanned and patted down AGAIN, machines sniffing for explosives that don’t exist because I’m FAT. Holding up the line, because I’m FAT. I asked the gate agent if it was possible to sit alone again, so I could again put my foot up and out, but the flight was over-booked. I would definitely have a seat partner. The poor man I sat next too had the grace to not say anything as my ass definitely crowded him. I struggled with a seat belt extender. My foot was aching. I cried most of the way home. Only forty minutes of my life, but… a picture of MY LIFE.
And… I want a baby.
Do I deserve a baby?
I’m old. I’m fat. Can I do that to a child?
I’m feeling selfish.
I’m feeling cold feet.
Getting MARRIED wasn’t this hard.
Will my love be enough?
My house is a shambles again, between Partner and nephew being home alone so much this last week and my foot not allowing me to grocery shop or clean. It’s one more strike against me.
Do I deserve a baby?
How can s/he possibly love old, fat, broken me? You have to earn their love and I’m not sure I have anything to offer them.