Either my Prozac needs to be upped, or I just had a really bad case of the “Mondays”

I know Tuesday is my usual Baby Girl status report, but since I don’t see Dr. Morgan until Thursday, I figured I’d postpone it until I actually had something worthwhile to report.

Instead, I’m going to be very indulgent (to steal a quickly-becoming-overused phrase of Idol judge Simon Cowell), and just vent about how lousy my Monday was.  Sometimes, as petty as it seems, just getting it out of my head and down on paper can help me move on.

12:11 (just past midnight): give up trying to fall asleep in my own bed, and stumble to the couch in an attempt to get comfortable.

1:04ish: doze off in a fitful sleep

2:34: awake, startled, and flee to the bathroom, where I lose the contents of my stomach in a very yucky, violent manner.  Down a couple TUMS, pat BG in reassurance that she, too, wouldn’t be yanked up my esophagus, and collapse back onto the couch.

6:08: stumble back into bed when Jim leaves for work; toss and turn

6:30: hit the snooze button

6:38: hit the snooze button again

7:00 – 7:22: enjoy a slight reprieve in the terrible-horrible-no-good-very-bad morning to feed, snuggle with, and see off Seth

8:20: fall back asleep, and dream of boys from high school. (Jed, Joel – if there is any chance you’re reading this…..hi.)

12:01: wake up, feeling worse than before.  Marvel in horror that it is NOON and realize that I am NEVER going to be able to fall asleep tonight.

12:32: head to the local tire repair store, where Jim assured me that it would be “simple and cheap” to repair the nail puncture in my right rear tire.

2:28: tire repair guy comes into waiting room (where both my bladder and my back were protesting the 2-hour stint in a plastic chair) to tell me he can’t fix my tire.  He motions me to follow him to the garage so he can show me exactly why (as if I’ll understand any of it).  Long story short: he can’t fix the tire; he won’t put the tire back on my car; I either have to use the spare or buy a new tire.  All I’m able to translate is: what a waste of time!

3:18: see on Facebook that a friend is expecting her fourth baby.  Happy for her…but…..oh, hello, Jealousy.  I see you’ve brought your companion Bitter along this time.  Rather than reiterate, here is what I posted to my online gal pals:

A friend just announced she is expecting #4 on FB. I'm jealous. It's not fair. I've been pregnant 5 times with 6 babies, and will have 2 to show for it. I am over the moon grateful for Seth, for Duncan, and for this little one I'm carrying. Wanting "more" feels selfish, but yet.... I'm sad that I'll never again post "another little one is on the way...." I'm sad that the decision to stop the growth of our family has been taken from my hands. I'm sad that I have to feel resentful of people who I genuinely care for, just because they are blessed with uncomplicated fertility. I hate that I think I need to up my Prozac dosage, because I hate being on it in the first place. I hate that my fertility and inability to healthily carry a baby to term has shaped so much of who I am and how I think and how I respond to the world around me -- especially given this baby-making stage-of-life that we are in.

3:21: unclog the half-bath toilet. I’ll spare you the details of that one.

3:23: spill an entire bottle of Blueberry Pomegranate Gatorade all over the counter, the dishwasher, the cabinets, me, and my shoes.

4:10: rip the elastic bra out of my favorite yellow pajama top while trying to pull it over my growing torso.  Grr.

7:19: Seth smeared the remnants of a brownie on the cream upholstery of my dining room chairs.

8:49: Bachelor Jake let Tenley go, and proceeded to propose to Vienna.  Ew.  (Seriously?)

11:45: Jim got called back to work.  Yes.  At almost midnight.  Sigh.