Yesterday a white van came and took away the babies’ beds. I included all their bedding and a few of their older cot toys that they no longer play with. The beds and linens and toys are all destined for a new nursery and it’s good and I get that it’s like Toy Fucking Story 3 but it still broke my fucking heart.
Today the twins kept asking where their “white beds” are.
It was like a paper cut with a side of lemon squeeze.
It’s stupid and I’m being ridiculous and I should get over myself and I will. I adore them and their interaction, I think I just mourn the past. I also mourn knowing that our relationship here is so much better, so much healthier, than it was back then, and it would have been like an explosion of fucking sunlight if I could’ve transplanted the now to the then. I would’ve been different back then, if I could do it all over again. That’s it, isn’t it? If I could have a do-over, I would do it all again and I would do it better.
It’ll get better. I know it will.
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Jeff has been having a hard time with his life. This translates to him acting out and being not very easy sometimes. I get that he’s testing us, he’s testing me, he’s trying (subconsciously) to see how much we love him. I not only see it, I understand it. I’ve never been very good at tests, and this latest round has me trying to peel my face off the floor. And Alastair’s being a fucking champ and he’s really holding things well and I’m trying too and we’re all working on being patient because we love the kid, but fuck if it isn’t a trying time.
It’ll get better. I know it will.
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I went to the gynecologist two days ago. He smiled at seeing me, shook my hand in the posh private hospital room, and asked me expectedly: “So, how’s the bleeding?”
“I’m still bleeding,” I replied.
He dropped his head to the table. Brilliant, a vagina doctor who thunks his head down. I explained that the periods are far, far better – no longer am I bleeding heavily enough to insert a small white lap dog to staunch the flow – but that yes, I am still spotting daily.
He suspects my fibroid is still the cause of the bleeding. He said I should come back in six months and if I’m still bleeding they’re remove the Mirena, do an ablation, and see what happens. He also said the type of ablation I would be having would obliterate my womb and mean that I could never carry children again, which was not a shock. That ship not only set sail some time ago, it broke it’s anchor, rotted, and sunk to the bottom of the deep blue sea.
Six months, during which time I can use my bodily fluids to keep the cast of the Twilight series alive. It’s worth a shot, seeing as their romantic love-scene acting is so wooden they might as well invest in some heavily progesteroned blood. Might help, couldn’t hurt.
Six months…which is about as long as it took me to see a new specialist, an orthopedic surgeon, as an old ankle injury has been struck badly by osteoarthritis courtesy of my old friend EDS. I see the new guy next week, which is just in time – the cold is coming and the ankle injury’s painful. I keep losing feeling in my fingers and toes, and though I delight in watching the Canadian geese as they’ve started their migrations south and fly into my favorite season, I know that stocking up on gloves is the only way to get through the season change that is coming.
And through it all, I keep crying about stupid things. I’d say I have PMS, but I never stop bleeding enough to know if that’s the case or not.
It’ll get better. I know it will.
Soon would be helpful. Getting better soon would be helpful.
-S.
* With lots and lots of swearing.
