happy vs. unhappy
Back when I was younger and still occasionally sat down to write a short story or a poem I realised at some point that I always wrote when I was unhappy, when life was against me. Poems were dark and gloomy and so were most of my stories. My first real relationship isn’t chronicled from beginning to end like I originally thought it would be, instead I know when it began and (definitely) when it ended. When things began to blossom between J and me, I made sure to chronicle beyond the butterflies in my stomach telling something was about to come because I wanted to know my thoughts all the way through and not just at the beginning.
I had a great weekend – and I should have written. I didn’t. Instead I find myself writing page upon page in my diary about the long day at work and the feelings I have gone through today – and telling myself that it must be kept from this space.
I don’t generally feel unhappy. I feel happy and content most days. It’s the unhappiness and the being annoyed with things that occasionally stops by not the other way around. It only feels the other way around when I read my old diaries and when I sit down to find words for this space.
We leave for our annual skiing trip this Friday. I plan to pack lots of books. I plan to sleep like a baby. I plan to kiss my husband at least once an hour. And I plan to not think about work because what can I do?
I go on maternity leave in three months (six weeks before my due date) and though there is lots to be worked out before I can turn of the computer and leave my desk, three months isn’t a very long time. I know I am completely unrealistic in all the things I want to do while I am at home, but I am allowing myself to dream on a little longer.
I am (knock on wood) enjoying a healthy and so far uncomplicated pregnancy. People compliment me for not having gained more weight, my body seems to be working like it should and the fact that I am growing a human inside of me is making me beam. I have found it surprisingly easy to give up on wine and coffee, and though I have gone through a couple of crises clothes wise it is not yet worthy of writing about. The only thing that has caused a little trouble is the whole hands on stomach thing. I am surprisingly private about my stomach when it comes to people wanting to touch. And right up until they touch, I am surprisingly unaware of the people I don’t mind touching and the people I feel like hitting for invading my personal space.
The baby is kicking away like mad. J feels it. He has his hands on my stomach morning and night and it is wonderful that we both feel the little thing that we created together. In the beginning I looked forward to every visit to the doctor, the hospital, the midwife. Every visit that would gives us confirmation that there was indeed still a creature being built in there, but now as s/he tells me every day, I don’t need strangers to reassure me.
What’s not to be happy about?