Really, Life?

That's what I said when I stepped in something wet and looked down to see that it was vomit. On the cute little kitchen rug that I just washed and put back on the floor.

It was just a wee little bit of watery vomit. Just enough to be annoying, but not enough to say it was a grody mess or to worry me about the dogs. It is a perfect metaphor for my past three weeks. I'm TRYING to be normal and nonchalant, but the universe is propelling me down down down into my leopard print thinking chair, or in in into my bed for reasons beyond my control. I can't override them because the body has just plain refused to allow it.

Me sick, then Oliver sick, then me again. And we're talking SIIIIIIICK. Fevers and violent coughing and no energy whatsoever. Which is fine, whatever, but the amount of schedule juggling involved with that was incredible - taken care of quickly and efficiently, but it was still one more thing to add to the plate since Husband wasn't home. And this little mama has maternal guilt that weighs heavily on all her decisions: if I'm away from sick little Oliver, I feel guilty. If I'm away from my Vega family of students, I feel guilty. If I get subs for my classes, I feel guilty for putting a valued person on the spot by asking them at the last minute.

So what happened was I would push the envelope and try teaching, and then come home and get slammed all over again with whatever has attacked my immune system. Yesterday, I had to teach my burlesque class, and really felt the need and obligation to be there. I spent the entire day in bed, coughing madly and drifting in and out of fitful sleep and then peeled myself off my fitted sheet to get ready for class. So I went in, worked at my desk, taught class. And then, halfway through, I tried showing them the next move, and it felt like someone - no, not someone. Bigfoot. It felt like Bigfoot gave me a nice swift kick in the nads, and this kick happened in the frozen tundra, where my muscles weren't warmed up and I was forced by gymnastic Eskimos to drop instantly into the splits.

Painful? Absolutely. But I can jam through pain pretty well. However, in addition to the pain, everything just locked up. I COULDN'T move. I stood there, blank faced, trying not to give anything away, and mumbled "um, um, let's seee..." Like I was trying to remember what the next part of the dance was.

I managed to will the body to do it, and then marked the dance mostly after that, with a few stupid full out performances. According to friend from class, no one noticed. Phew!

I could barely walk to the car afterward, and it took me five minutes just walk up my front porch stairs. Limping. Actual limping.

What in THE HELL??? I have no idea why that pain exists or what it means (I asked my doctor about it, but I'm not sure she understood my description. Swollen vulva was her only suggestion but that seems an unlikely reason. It does, however, sound like an angsty girl band whose members all ride scooters.)

Don't get me wrong - there is no cramping, bleeding, or any other sign of baby danger in ANY way. The baby is doing great. The pain is not remotely close to my wonderful little baby belly at all. But I do believe that I need to chill out. And it's just in time. Monday starts off as March, and that's my last month teaching class, and I have already long-ago arranged for assistants in my class for that month (I teach, they demonstrate). And then I am officially done teaching as of April 1.

I can't believe the winding-down time has already arrived. I'm glad I gave myself plenty of time to prepare (all of April and half of May), especially in case she comes early. I have had three people in the same week tell me that their babies were 5 to 6 weeks early. Holy balls. It might explain my sudden need to move my couch today and sweep the floor there, and then spray Lysol all over the house. Limping all the way. But I HAD to do it. Couldn't sit here any longer until it was done.

And now my first born child wants a hot dog. Duty calls.

Belly Pictures Postponed

My sister, Donna, left me a voicemail last night that mentioned how she hasn't seen my baby belly (she doesn't live here). She also mentioned that she kept hoping she would see a picture on my Facebook page or here on this blog. I can't believe I have not been documenting this!

So I was planning on taking a picture of myself today and posting it here but the following things happened:

1) I woke up feeling like garbage, causing my face to appear askew.

2) I had a coughing fit AFTER I got dressed all cute, and ended up peeing my pants. Oh yes, people. It's true. Ever since Oliver was born I have had to BEWARE of sudden sneezes, coughing fits that attack me before I can cross my legs, and doing high kicks. This, despite my attempts at fitness down there. Kegels be damned!

3) Husband procured Smoked Cheddar and Ham Mac from Montage for me today, and also sported me a little side salad with balsamic vinegar drizzled on it. Said balsamic vinegar ended up on my cute and belly-rific hoodie right next to the screen print of a chick's face.

So, no photo today! But trust me, it's getting to be quite fun, as the regular world couldn't possibly mistake this for anything but pregnancy. Thus, I no longer feel like I just look fat. It actually makes me feel a wee bit little again, as I appear to be all belly. I will enjoy THAT while it lasts, though, because soon I will look like this:

Hopeless Popeless

While curled up in our sickly state this morning, Oliver and I are watching Mickey Mouse on tv and they are talking about magic and math. Goofy is trying to do magic tricks and using magic words.

Oliver says a couple words (I wasn't listening) and points at his milk cup, looks at me and says, "Hey that's not a magic word. My milk is still here."

Me: Try 'Hocus Pocus'.

Oliver: "Focus! Focus!"

Me, enunciating: "Hhhhocus Puh-ocus!"

Oliver: "Pocus Focus!"

Dear Oliver...

I love you. You often tell me that I am your best friend. And kid, you are mine. You don't feel well right now and my heart breaks for you. However, your illness combined with Daddy being away has created a lot of time for just you and me - and my favorite parts are when we lay in my big new giant bed together and tell jokes and stories and I get to hear your little laugh.

You kiss my belly and ask when the baby is getting here and you tell her goodnight at bedtime. It's so genuine and sweet - I know you will hover over her when she arrives and love her immeasurably.

In your feverish, painful-throated, chapped and bloody-lipped state, you want to only be comforted by your mom. Who doesn't want their mom when they're sick? So I have had to readjust my schedule and cancel activities to take care of you this week. What might seem like an inconvenience to some, is really my basic instinct anyway. I am drawn to you and there is no place else I would rather be.

Plus, you got me sick again and now I have to stay home. For shame! You're grounded.

Here. Here I am.

So, I have several drafts that I never posted over the last couple of weeks. Mostly because they started off as updates, and then as I carried on I realized I was ranting. No one needs to see my rants. No one. They are lame. So I would start over a couple days later, and then end up doing the ranting once more. I guess I had some venting to do, people. So let me just vent first and get it over with:

Basically, it boils down to Husband being gone for two weeks with a short visit home in between weeks. I got really sick and had to miss work. I decided that Oliver really needed a break, so I took him up North to see my mom for a few days, and since that's also where Joe was working, he got to see Joe a teensy bit, too. Like, for two meals. That's it.

I got home yesterday, got called by my doctor office and told I was anemic - which totally explains my getting sick, feeling overly tired, and being freaking cold all the time. (And the dark skin around my eyes, and the pale lips.) I was just finishing up my jillion hour-long drive home from Arlington when I got the call, and decided not to mess around. Went straight to the store for my prescribed iron supplement. Later in the evening, Oliver developed a mild fever and a cough. Now he is feeling crummy, but being a good sport.

In summary of my rant, we have this: Husband leaves town. Wife gets sick and has to scramble for subs at work. Husband comes home for two days. Husband leaves again. Wife feels way too tired to dance and decides to arrange subs again for a couple of classes. Wife gets told at work that she is missed when she is gone and feels guilty. Wife leaves anyway and has a so-so trip. Wife gets home and is looking forward to relaxing. Boy gets sick. Not relaxing.

And here we are. I decided that I am really looking forward to getting back to work next week, as tiring as it is, because that will be more of a break than I have had in two whole weeks. I get to be around smiling, appreciative people and share good energy with them. I think people might imagine me sitting around eating bon bons (where the HELL can I get some bon bons?!) when I am not at work. But man, I'm working. Trust me. So it's not a good sign that dancing this much when I am giantly pregnant is a RELIEF.

And Portland? I just love you. Your people, your lay of the land, your food. I love your food. I was only gone for three days and I couldn't wait to get back. I am proud of my decision to live here and have a family here.

So, while my break was not what I intended it to be, it did what I intended it to DO. It helped get my brain back on track to go back to the studio and work until it's time to be done for baby reasons.

And... scene.

The cure for what ails...

is this:


I am operating on few hours of sleep, and I have so much to do today (and tomorrow and next week) that I am beginning to feel overwhelmed with it all. I will be rewarding myself at the end of the day with one or seven of these cupcakes before tumbling into bed for some much needed cupcake-induced rest.

But first, I have to make them. Oh dear.

In his own words...

I am not teaching my class this evening, so as to give my body a break and Joe some extra time to do his Joe Work. I went in, brought Joe some lunch, worked on office-y things like my Vega Newsletter and emails, and then headed home with the boy.

I decided to drop by the store for some dinner items and ice cream cone fixin's. Since I was going to be home with Oliver during dinner time, which is rare, I wanted to make it special. So I was consulting my friend Allison on what to have for dinner, and she suggested breakfast for dinner, like eggs and waffles. Brilliant!

"Oliver, do you want eggs for dinner?"

"Nooooo."

So then Allison suggested French toast. Another brilliant idea. I love French toast. But then I said, "Oh wait. He hasn't pooped in a couple days, he can't have bread for dinner."

To which Oliver piped up. "Mom, I better talk to Allison for a minute."

So I put Allison on speaker phone, and Oliver told her, "Allison? Hi. I can't have any bread because I have to poop..."

I mean, just in case she didn't understand it the first time. It's always good to make sure people know exactly what's going on.