This week has been straight up hellish. It honestly felt like I was experiencing election day all over again -- a day I had eagerly anticipated and was sure would be wonderful, only to end up feeling like I'd been sucker punched. Monday we had our 20 week ultrasound -- I have been waiting and waiting and waiting for this magical day. I was sure it would be wonderful, because this time I'm on prozac and not in (as deep) throes of depression. With P's ultrasound I spent much of the day sobbing because it turns out my mental chemistry is far from ideal and pregnancy doesn't help. But this time! This time will be all it should be! Huzzah!
We had the ultrasound in the morning and found out we're having another boy. I was mildly upset mostly because everyone I knew was rooting for a girl and I didn't want to have to disappoint people, not that I could control it anyway. I was personally ambivalent. I want a boy AND a girl baby, but I don't want to have twins or another child. Is that so much to ask? So I knew I'd be excited and disappointed because my expectations were impossible to meet. My follow-up appointment was for the afternoon and P was playing with grandma so I ran a few errands and ate lunch, then went to the follow-up appointment. At the appointment the doctor informed me she thought there was a possibility the baby could have Down Syndrome, and also that the it looked like I had velamentous cord insertion. Her quick drawing on an index card did not clarify what that would mean. So she recommended further testing at the maternal-fetal health center. Fantastic! Just what every mom wants to hear!
I cried in the car all the way to grandma's. Then I cried some more at grandma's. Then I came home and tried to cook dinner and everything got burned and I burst into tears. And I looked up velamentous cord insertion and cried some more. Then I read a bunch of scary possible scenarios on the internet and cried some more. The next day I bumbled through my morning, made an appointment with the specialist, bumbled through work, cried some more and spent more time on the internet instead of sleeping.
Today I had the appointment with the specialist. An hour and a half of being looked at and sitting in a room waiting and then getting some blood drawn yielded the happy result that the cord looks completely normal and there is no reason to worry at all and that it doesn't look like the baby has any higher likelihood of Down Syndrome than I would ordinarily have as a mom in my thirties anyway. Hooray. And also, WTH doctors? Was it really necessary to make me cry and freak my family out for 48 hours? I know they just wanted to be sure and get a second opinion but, ugh. What a week.
Meanwhile, P really worked himself up this afternoon. I think he feels a little under the weather. He scream-whined at me for two hours straight this afternoon/evening. I knew he was hungry, but he refused the food I offered and I was trying to get dinner ready. When he threw a glass (mercifully it didn't shatter) I completely lost it and yelled at him that it was a dangerous thing to do. He then started wailing for daddy and I informed him that I didn't know where daddy was or when he was getting home and I know I'm nobody's favorite parent but we were both stuck. More screaming. Another yell from me and dinner was in the oven. Then we cuddled up so I could sob while reading Goodnight Moon.
Patrick has rounded out the evening by being as unpleasant in as many ways as he possibly can. Slam every door, kick, flail, headbutt, whine. I felt like a really good mother when I said "if you kick me again I will kick you back" -- it did not come to that, and I hope I never follow through on words said in anger. He flailed away from me while I was doing his diaper and he whacked his head on the floor as a result of the tantrum and like a good mother I had no sympathy for him whatsoever. Now we're all in bed hoping tomorrow is at least two weeks away.
While I was doing dishes I thought "Thanks, Trump." It always bugged me when people blamed Obama for stuff that wasn't his fault, but now I really see how satisfying it can be to have a scapegoat. Nothing that happened this week in my life was anyone's "fault" -- least of all our commander in chief. But he isn't making my week better either, so thanks a million pal. You wanted a thankless job where you get blamed for everything and thanked for nothing and now you have it. Here's some other stuff that you did that sucks Donald: You've left a load of laundry wet in the washer to get moldy and you're too worn out to do anything about it. You forgot to get blueberries and only the little sour ones are left for tomorrow's breakfast. You didn't put a warming pad in my bed and now my feet are cold so that's on you too. Nick from the Bachelor is someone I don't respect or care about and it has diminished my enjoyment of that program, and it's airing on your watch even if it was filmed during Obama's tenure so I blame you. Everything on every media platform, including this blog, seems to be about you and it's annoying and tiresome and overwhelming. Clearly not my fault at all, just like everything else I feel like whining about.
I did make amazing enchiladas tonight. In spite of an adult and a child both having a tantrum during the process, they turned out super duper tasty and there are leftovers for tomorrow. And my baby is healthy. And my pregnancy looks just fine. And I worked out for 50 minutes while keeping an angry toddler moderately satisfied with life. And I forwent dessert without feeling like a martyr, because I knew sweets weren't going to fix how today feels anyway. So things are okay. Even good. But I'm donezo with this week.
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