Waiting for Michael

I am writing this whilst waiting for Michael to call me to come and get him from work. Which will, unfortunately, not be until way too late for me. I have tried sleeping while waiting for the call, but then I wind up driving to get him in this half-asleep, punch-drunk state, which didn't exactly feel very safe. There's just something about driving off the side of the road and into buildings which neither I nor my insurance company cares for, you know?

Anyway, I thought I would use my time productively instead of just sitting here watching Iron Chef America. Multi-tasking, yes! I am woman, watch me multi-task.

I think I'm a little too tired.

Not as tired as Grrl, over at Chez Miscarriage, who just posted about the joys of poo-shooting babies who never sleep. If you want to read it, get over there fast and read it now! Because, while she is only blogging every so often now as she learns to cope with her newborn, when she decides to post again this entry will be gone forever. She doesn't archive anymore, due to a problem with being plagiarized. Even without sleep (you parents out there might remember when your little ones were two weeks old) she is funny, funny, funny.

How quickly we forget the difficulties of tiny babies, though! Just tonight the husband and I had a long talk about my menstrual cycle and the distinct possibility that I am now fertile. It is Time to make Decisions about our reproductive future. Which is alternately funny and annoying, considering our reproductive past. I can't believe I am in the position of having to consider birth control!

I started the conversation because I got wistful about not being able to look forward to being pregnant again and experience swollen feet. Yes, I know, I'm crazy. But the fact is, aside from the depression this last time around, I really enjoyed being pregnant. I like having a baby inside me and watching the changes to my body. My first pregnancy I even laughed over the times I'd break into completely causeless tears. I didn't care for the nine months of morning sickness, but I didn't really mind, either. (Which, incidentally, is why having Arielle throw up on me yesterday didn't bother me at all. I used to be vomit-phobic, but with both pregnancies I started morning sickness one month into my first trimester and didn't stop puking until the baby was a month old. I became amazingly casual about it after a while.)

Of course, if I do get pregnant again, though, I would be in serious danger of coming down with PPD again. With my family history (all my bipolar relatives) I'm higher risk for PPP. I keep thinking about Andrea Yates, how her doctors told her not to get pregnant again.

I can't risk that. The more I think about it, the more I ponder it, the more I am deeply convinced that another pregnancy would be an incredibly bad idea.

But it makes me wistful. I wish I could have another baby. I wish I could have the fun of walking around with a big ol' tummy again. I wish I could sleep at night curled up around my baby, hands on my abdomen, feeling her move inside me, feeling protective and loving toward this fragile little being.

Does this longing ever really go away? Will I feel wistful about pregnancy and newborns when I'm 80 years old?

I need to go reread Chez Miscarriage and remind myself that I get to sleep through the night now. When I'm not picking Michael up from work, that is.