There's a very old "Garf.ield" comic strip in which, I think, Jon reproaches his cat because all he does is eat and sleep. The cat makes some obnoxious remark I can't remember (something about how that's what life is all about), and in the last frame, one of them says "I'm hungry," and the other is asleep.
I am both those today. Woke up, had a bagel, talked to B, dozed, gave in and took a full-fledged nap on the couch for a couple hours, woke up, had some chips and iced tea, had some popcorn, and that brings me to now.
Busy day. Whatever. It's helping me get through, and making up for not eating yesterday because I was too upset.
It occurs to me that eating and sleeping is also the sum total of what newborns do -- along with the diaper activity, of course. Of course that occurs to me. Saturdays are hard, because that's when I entered the next week of my pg. I would be 33w today. 13 weeks ago, we were trying to figure out what the hell we were going to do. How much of a chance our living son would have. If infection didn't set in. If I didn't go into labor. If he didn't just die inside me like his brother.
God, that sucked. I look back, and it seems like a whole other universe. The time I was pregnant, it seemed so long to get to 20 weeks. Every day was an eternity. I remember thinking early on that I'd be 20 weeks at New Year's. After the new year, I'd start polling my friends for recommendations on baby stuff. Maybe we'd go look at cribs. Start moving stuff out of C's office into mine to make room for the babies. Maybe I'd have stopped puking.
Well, I stopped puking. I had actually just reconciled myself with the idea that I'd probably be sick the entire pregnancy, that I'd be sick until May. Guess I was right, on one of those, at least. Goddammit.
Looking back, the last three months have flown. My friend S is where I was (or beyond where I was) when it all went to hell. My sister is past her first trimester.
Life goes on.
I eat. I sleep.