Tomorrow I have an appointment with a vein specialist. I cringe at the thought of someone even touching my leg. The discomfort ranges from “achy” to “I can’t put any pressure on this leg” to “I can’t straighten my leg” to “Holy Mother of God!”
I’m scared. Even though I know they really can’t do anything until after Beany is born, but they might find something dangerous right now. I think blood is pooling behind my leg. I’m really squicked out by the whole process and wish to sit on the couch and veg.
I am trying to figure out if I can wake up early (meaning earlier) to shave my legs before some stranger begins poking at my pulsating veins. My boys, who will conk out even as the other is screaming in his face, will wake up if I shift positions after 5 am. Bah.
It is what it is, ultimately. I’ve had the veins for, what? 15 years? They got uglier with the last pregnancy, uglier still and painful with this one. It’s the price of admission.
I see a lot of my comedy cohorts mocking and laughing at Paula Deen’s diabetes today. “What a shock! Eat crap and get sick! Lard and butter!” and all I can think is (a) that poor woman seems to have had three lifetimes of pain and still appears to want to make people happy and (b) no one asks for diabetes and (c) she’s taking ownership and (d) does this mean if I tweet or FB about my leg pain I’ll get the same “It’s your own damn fault, stupid” response, mostly from the kid-bashers?
I know a lot of kid bashers. You can hate on kids and their parents these days. Everyone likes those comments. Hi-LAR-ious. Blech.
I guess I want some sympathy to go with my whine.
Is that wrong? To want to be babied for a day, to take a respite from being the mommy, the nurturer?
I will get back to the previous musings about having a girl on Thursday. I need a nap and some cake. Mostly cake. Not so much nap.