Four nights in a room to myself (practically), someone bringing me meals, checking on me, giving me medication and nurturing. All expenses paid (except for the epidural).
All I have to do to earn that little vay-cay is give birth.
Wait a second- what?
Yup. Giving birth is the ultimate excuse to stop. doing. all. the. things.
Is this sad, hilarious, or just insane?
I think what this means is, life is a teeny, tiny bit, too busy. Last week nearly broke me. I volunteer on two committees and run my business from home. Not to mention I also need time to write, paint, keep my three-year-old alive, my household fed, and bake a baby. Just to keep things interesting, I have this chronic, pregnancy-induced back pain that flares up every afternoon and leaves me almost debilitated (and laying horizontal on a hard surface).
Maybe it’s time to take my own advice.
Maybe self-care is like ‘balance,’ or like ‘being present,’ something to strive for but never achieve? Or maybe I’m just making another excuse.
It can’t be that hard. My husband said to me, if I can’t use pregnancy as an excuse to slow down then I can’t use anything (I suspect he’s right and that the world will keep turning).
Saturday morning my mood took a bigger dip than it had in a long time. The real red flag rose up when I realised that I could not think of one thing I wanted to do. Not painting, not yoga, not even ice cream. One of depression’s flashing,neon signs- the things you love to do are no longer appealing.
Luckily my husband and daughter suggested we go out to lunch. I didn’t want to leave the house but knew I should. We went out for pizza. It was the first time in a week I had enough energy to have an actual conversation. Between bites of mozarella-y goodness and my husband gently probing me out of my shell, I started to feel better.
Afterward, we went to a fancy-schmancy grocery store where I found one of my American favourites, spaghetti squash. (Food makes me happy, it’s all I have these days). I also decided to be a rebel and buy myself some soft cheeses (this kid is practically cooked anyway. It’s fine. She’s fine. I’m a bad Mum sometimes.) Back at home I parked myself on the couch, had my dinner prepared by a handsome chef, and watched a few documentaries.
By the end of the night, I felt so much better, mentally and physically. The most important thing I did is give myself permission to feel lousy and then permission to relax. Maybe I don’t need to wait for the hospital in order to get some nurturing. Easier to take care of a baby when they’re still inside anyway.