The sun didn’t shine today – metaphorically and in actual fact. There hasn’t been a lot in the way of mood swings so far so maybe this is just playing catch-up – I’ve been on such a high, for so long, that the odd day of feeling depressed does stand out. I’ve been weepy or on the verge of tears all day and with not a whole lot of reason. I suppose, the thing is, that when the happy hormonal bubble that I’ve been encased in for at least the last 5 months shifts for a moment then I can see what’s underneath, which is that I’m on my own, and scared.
Why am I feeling scared? It seems so dumb because I have a lot invested in being, as well as seeming, bulletproof at the moment. I relish the fact that I can still walk for an hour or so (okay, with frequent breaks) without falling apart, that I can still swim the usual number of laps, that I feel so well nearly all of the time that I can forget I’m eight months pregnant, and that I don’t *need* anyone to cook me dinner, or sort out the baby clothes for me, or rub my back when it’s sore. The baby’s growing fine and is clearly not too big, and is very properly head down and low, the blood pressure’s fine and the cankles aren’t too fat. When people ask how I am, I can say with perfect truth that I’m great. When they tell me I look relaxed and healthy I can smile, and say thankyou. I am superwoman! I can do it all by self! (as my little niece used to say when you tried to help her with something).
Like everything though, that’s not perhaps the entire truth.
I don’t need anyone to live with me and cook for me when I’m tired and lazy, but that doesn’t mean I’m cooking industriously for myself – my guilty secret for today that I will share is that after a very late breakfast (toast and honey, and a berry-watermelon smoothie and a piece of cheese) the culinary wheels fell off, and I dined on some rubbery old dumplings at 4pm for lunch, had a dark chocolate bunny and milk at 5.30 and napped from 6 until 9, when I dined like a king on two gingerbread biscuits while watching Chariots of Fire and weeping copiously. Not exactly Superwoman. And I certainly can’t put the baby’s room together all by self – I had two lots of friends come over last weekend (Butches With Drills) to assemble the EXPEDIT and the STUVA and the Tripp Trapp and put hooks on the walls – stuff I just can’t do and won’t even try. Not exactly Amazon Woman. And while I don’t need anyone to rub my back or my belly and feel the baby moving around and tell me I’m loved, god knows I would love to have it.
It’s that which scares me at the moment – I have so many people around in my life who can, and do, help in so many ways, but I’m frightened it won’t be enough, because in the end there’s no-one here who loves me more than anyone else, who has to be there (at the birth) and afterwards. (My doula/acupuncturist is going away on holiday for 2 weeks on Saturday, and I am honestly terrified that the baby will come early while she’s around. In the absence of a partner, I really really need her to be there). The dads will be around afterwards and will love the baby as much as I will, but then they’ll never have the same sort of tender feelings for me, and never will (nor would I want or expect that). I know I’m not the first woman who’s almost about to give birth on her own, and all those other SMCs and abandoned or bereaved women do it every day and do it fine. But. Underneath my superwoman persona I need stuff from other people and I don’t know if I’m going to be able to ask for and get what I need.
So that’s the state of emotional play right now. Here’s what I did today on minus 29 – I got up late, organised a handyman to come over on Saturday and hopefully finish the stuff that the Butches couldn’t do, caught the tram into the city for acupuncture and then went to my gym for a 1km swim, then back home via the dumpling shop for a very inadequate lunch (see above). Then snack, long nap, snack and film. Not tired enough to go to sleep yet. I’m going to have to control my napping a bit better, I think!