I was in an abusive relationship around 14 years ago. I thought I could change him and saw so much more potential in him and us than was ever there.

Now, I’m realizing that I’m in that sort of relationship again. Only this time it’s with myself. I’ve been pushing myself too hard, accepting too much responsibility and now I’ve literally made myself sick. I’ve been experiencing stomach issues off and on for the past two weeks. With the worst of it coming this past Monday. It was to the point where I thought I may have actually had appendicitis. My right side is still hurting but at least I now know after having blood work and a CT scan that I’m not going to lose my appendix anytime soon. Or time with my family.

Thinking back over the past few years, I seem to always get sick when under a lot of pressure. So why do this to myself? Why try to overachieve and please everyone? Is it really worth it?

How can I break-up with her, my ego?

I’ll state it again.  I’ve hit a dead end.  The question really is, do I care?  Or it is comfortable sitting in this alley with the trash and the stink?  The darkness?  Do I have Stockholm Syndrome?  Am I a monkey living in the monkey house?

At what point do use and old age accept them?  Is it 38?

I haven’t done my research on the psychology of this but it must be due to some myth promoted by some corporation or governing body somewhere, right?

I WANT MY BODY BACK!  In the worst way, seriously.  People keep telling me that I should cherish this time because at least I’m not getting up in the middle of the night.  These people obviously either A) have never been pregnant or B) have completely forgotten what the end of the third trimester is like.  I’m already getting up at least 4 times a night to “pee” — I’m using quotes because sometimes it feels like I’m going to pee 5 cups full and all I get is a tiny weeny trickle.  Not to mention the hip pain which causes me to switch positions, oh I dunno, maybe 25 times a night (poor DH having to deal with that).  Anyway, wah.  Looking forward to fitting into real clothes and being able to move about without pain or feeling breathless.

It has really come to my attention recently that DH and I have this parenting one kid thing down.  We’re pretty good at just taking responsibility for various tasks and chores and the load on most nights is pretty evenly split (depending on work schedules, etc.).  And here we are, brilliantly adding another human being to the equation.  Reminds me of that one New Order line, “Work your way to the top of the world, then break your life in two.”  That’s what we’re doing essentially.  I only pray that since we’ve assimilated one kid into our lives and finally have it down that the next round will be shorter.

The big day is Friday.  I decided to get induced this time for a number of reasons.  As many of you can probably tell from recent posts, I don’t make the best pregnancy candidate.  I HATE being pregnant.  But giving Monkey the sibling I never had was important for me, thus the second go at this.  Also about 3 weeks ago, the sonogram tech said that baby girl was 6 pounds.  And if she truly gained a pound per week since then, well then she’s 9 pounds now and would have been 10 by her original due date.  Didn’t quite find the idea of squeezing out a 10 pound baby that appealing and I really want to avoid a cesarean.  Monkey was born vaginally and it went well.  I’m hoping for the same this time.

I’m nervous about this decision because I’ve read too much crap online basically.  The doctor has assured me that getting induced doesn’t mean automatic cesarean or two days worth of labor.  And I’ve done my own poll of friends/co-workers and the majority of them who were induced didn’t go much beyond 8 hours (the same as what the doctor said).  It’s hard not to worry though.  Am I pushing things too much?  What if something goes wrong?  Will I then regret getting induced?  I need to put these thoughts out of my head and just trust that my doctor is correct and that everything will be fine.

Sorry for the randomness of this post.  Blame it on the hormones.

While putting Monkey to bed (a little earlier than usual because somehow his bedtime creeped up to 9:30), we had a little problem.  We read 3 books and I sat and talked with him for a while but when I informed him that I was going to bed, he pleaded for me to stay in the chair “a little bit longer”.  And this is my fault.  I’ll admit it.  Whenever he seems like he’s going to get upset about me leaving, I’ll say, “I’ll stay a little bit longer”  and most nights that little bit longer does the trick and he’s content to go to sleep after the first “little bit”.  But tonight was not one of those nights.

After the second bit, he started to wail and got out of bed, latching onto my leg as I tried to leave his room.  I don’t like for him to get worked up before bed because I know when I’m worked up prior to going to bed, it doesn’t lead to good sleep.  I asked as calmly as I could manage for him to go back to bed and he pleaded and cried for me to sit in the chair more.  I didn’t want to give in because I knew if I did that would mean three “little bits” tomorrow night and so on.  So in a very tender voice, I said, “Get back in bed and I’ll give you another kiss and hug.”  This worked.

He got back in bed and I tucked him in … then I proceeded to walk out the door! 

“But you said you’d give me a hug and kiss!” he wailed.  MY GOD, did I feel awful.  I apologized and gave him the hug and kiss I promised but still felt like a heel.  Then he said, “Can I give you a kiss?” and he did and then  I wanted to cry.  I felt so horrible.  I’ve been blessed with such a sweet little guy and I need to respect that.