Thursday, August 2, 2012
Drinking at work
Yesterday was painful. I ached with anticipation the way Heather's body ached with hormones. She continued, and continues, to tell me about all her symptoms and what percentage of certain she is, while I marshaled my own forces to fight off that confidence. It seems like setting myself up for disappointment, or maybe it's the Christmas-morning thing: I don't want to think about my presents until I'm opening them. The one time my sister encouraged me otherwise--"Okay, what did you ask for? What did you say you really wanted? Now, what size might that box be?"-- I found the unwrapping of my Barbie motor home anticlimactic. A Barbie motor home should never be anticlimactic. Those fuckers are miraculous.
I'm told that babies are miracles, too. Finding out we're having one should be a crazy-ass, epic climax, not the drawn-out, cautious happiness that we have now. Right? But it seems kind of ridiculous to shove my head in the sand just to make a point about Christmas morning. If Heather has rejected, with no sign of temptation, half a breakfast sandwich-- even when I offered just the bacon-- then there's good reason to be suspicious of her body. I can easily believe that she's swollen and achy because of the progesterone and estrogen she's still taking (so much progesterone, in fact, that her muscles can barely absorb it), but I don't know that either of those drugs cause women to reject, out of hand, the greatest food there is. (Okay, short of cake. Cake might be better than bacon.)
No, the idea of bacon didn't nauseate her, she said. That would have been reassuring. Instead, she made me go to Jason's Deli for lunch so she could eat hard-boiled eggs and leafy greens. "They say egg yolks are really good during pregnancy. And string cheese. I like string cheese. Baby, if we get the word tomorrow, we're going grocery shopping and we're getting eggs. Eggs and broccoli and juice. I like broccoli."
Don't think I won't be eating secret junk food on the side.