Fuzzy and Heavy

Well, bed rest could only have taken this blog in one of two directions, and to my surprise, the direction has been less posting instead of more.

It turns out, lying around being generally useless makes me fuzzy (figuratively, not literally. Rest assured, I am still managing to shave my legs, albeit with growing difficulty; it has to do with belly protrusion and optimal razor angling...it's all very complicated).

I'm growing duller by the day. I blame it on the endless marathons of Keeping Up With The Kardashians and lack of sleep from all the nightly baby punching (No, I'm not punching them. They're punching me. But don't think I haven't considered it 3 hours into their mixed martial arts sessions).

I honestly don't think I have an original, witty, or clever thought left in my head. If it doesn't have to do with onesies, labor, or Khloe and Lamar, it probably doesn't cross my mind these days. I kind of hate myself. I hate what I've become, and I hate what I've resorted to for entertainment. But this too shall pass, and I'll soon be entering a new phase in life, where I can stop hating myself and start hating normal things, like the price of diapers. And anyone who has the ability to just up and go out without securing a babysitter and checking their clothes for vomit stains.

The worst part about it is watching Brian bust his ass all day at work...only to come home and continue to bust his ass doing ALL the chores, preparing for the babies, and taking care of this grouchy, overheated, short-tempered beeyatch. I've always prided myself in my ability to pull my own weight and then some. But now, not only am I not pulling my own weight...I'm getting heavier by the day. Literally and figuratively, folks.

I went to my OB today and I had not progressed, cervically speaking. This should have made me so happy. It means the kids are safe and doing well and will be in the best environment for the as long as possible. But honestly, all I could think about is another month of bed rest, and what that meant for me. Being a parent is supposed to mean you automatically sacrifice everything for your children, without complaint. So why am I secretly wishing that they'd come, like, now, so I can fix a meal or get more milk without having to burden anyone? Does this mean I'm a bad parent? Am I destined to be selfish, to struggle with putting their needs before my own?

I dunno.
Probably best not to dwell on it. I'm sure at some point my mothering instinct will kick in. (right? RIGHT?!?)
But in the meantime, I just have to keep reminding myself that a few weeks (or months) of bed rest is a small price to pay for the two miracle babies that I'll get to meet soon enough.

Still...
The days are long.
And boring.
And I have all the time in the world to think about all the things that I'm missing out on. My favorite season and holiday are gearing up, and all I can do is stare out the window and watch the leaves start to change.
But there will be plenty more falls to come. More Halloweens to enjoy. More days to ride horses and hike and stack firewood and drink apple cider.
And those days will be all the more sweeter because I'll be sharing them with my children.
My children.

When you put it that way, what's a few weeks of bed rest?