I’ve lost my feet, despite having my toes painted red – what were to have been ten beacons, to help me locate them beneath the belly.
How twisted is it that pregnancy can be described in losses?
I’ve lost my feet.
I’ve lost my weekends to cleaning and decorating.
I’ve lost the ability to wear pants that don’t have an elastic insert.
I lose my breath.
I’ve lost the option to sleep on my back.
I’m losing sleep and will, undoubtedly, lose much more.
I’ve lost the will to wear heels.
I’ve lost the physical capability to get into several previously attainable positions [yoga – my dirty little readers. though, um, yeah, that too].
I’ve lost the option of breathing without sniffing.
Despite these new deficiencies, I have actually almost no sense of loss. Annoyance, yes – but not really loss.
Really, this should all be pissing me off to no end, regardless of how anticipated or “normal” these alterations are. None of them, in and of themselves, are good [although I suspect my chiropractor would cheer the loss of high heeled shoes] and, combined, they should be worrisome, at least. However, in context, I’m actually rather at peace.
Yes: at peace. Never you mind what Mr.Q says about my intermittent crankiness.
But I think I’ve found the chicken for these eggs. I figure that both the disturbingly easy acceptance and the intermittent crankiness may be from the loss of decent sleep.
And I think it likely that I’ll be able to sleep better once again when it becomes possible to locate my feet.