My birthday was... a long day of doctor appointments and tests.
Todd loves these days, because we're together.
I'm over "doctor dates."
I'm grateful to have both my drain and catheter removed.
I love my doctors (and nurses and the sweet receptionists).
I'm ready for real, non-urine related, friends and dates where I'm more intimate with my husband than every person who sees me on an exam table.
(Ooh, 37 is a little cranky on me.)
My baby is sick.
Todd is up with him all night long.
I lay in bed knowing how sick Ben is and feeling how tired Todd is and wishing that for one night I could cuddle and bounce and soothe.
All I want is to be a normal mom.
Leaving my sad boy, even with the most adorable grandparents, was painful.
I really am a selfish mother- even after 8 children, I still don't like to share for very long.
My doctors are hopeful about my recovery.
Listening to them talk about my surgery is surreal.
It's always a juxtaposition of "you're insides are awful" with "you're a miracle".
I believe angels have worked alongside my surgeons to fix me up, and so everyone who has seen my insides has a mixture of awe and holiness in their retelling of events.
They have great hopes for my recovery. Skilled surgeons have done great things to repair my internal organs.
I'm trying not to wince as they throw around numbers like-- no lifting over ten pounds for six weeks, no heavy lifting for six months, no moving furniture (or skiing) or moving dirt (my garden) for two years. Two years!! Sigh.
I'm not trying to train for the Olympics- I just want to lift my baby, pick up my five year old when she stubs her toe and is crying on the floor.
I want to be the one who carries my two year old back to bed the third time she comes down.
I want to put away groceries and carry laundry baskets.
I am not asking for super-powers.
Just regular old momma privileges.
I want to walk, I want to run, I want to lift and bounce and carry.
I want to rearrange the furniture while Todd's at work so I don't have to justify to him why I need to see the couch on every wall before I decide where it goes.
And, although I know how tempting it is, don't you dare tell me that not lifting for two years is worth it (or anything like into it).
Because I know that. I KNOW!!
But, it still stinks.
This is hard and long and yes, worth it.
Of course it is.
So many of you have your own crappy things. Babies who should be swinging at playgrounds not crying when another doctor enters the room.
I've learned one great coping mechanism on my crankiest days...
Try it with me.
After whining to whoever will listen I say with emphasis something like, "I hate this. Damn it."
Don't leave damn out.
It makes you feel better.
If it doesn't work as a verb, try it as an adjective.
I'm sick of my damn catheter, taking a mouthful of damn pills, laying in my damn bed, wearing this damn stomach binder and not being able to hold my own adorable baby.
See? You feel a little bit better, don't you?!
Life is damn good.
Even on crankier days.