I caught another fluey virus this weekend (why?!?), at about the same time as my first-trimester sickness arrived. I can’t work out how much of it is pregnancy (bed=melodramatic) and how much is lurgy (bed=encouraged). Either way, as a combination they are lethal, and infuriating. Yesterday I sat floppily on a sofa all day, trying to make conversation with Henry so he was getting some stimulation, while feeling increasingly desperate about all of the other things I was supposed to be doing.
That evening, after Tim had come home and picked me up from the floor, where I sat uncontrollably sobbing in a yoghurt-flavoured hoodie, I wrote a blog post that started like this:
Henry has not been outside in four days. It’s all I can do to get up and make him lunch. I feel like I am failing in every area that matters, and I’m doing it in a bubble where no one at all can help me. I feel like I’m in the middle of a party of people leading triumphant and glittery lives and I’m the only one sat in pyjamas.
Sometimes I think it’s good to write about hard things. Because maybe other people have hard things that are similar, and reading about it helps them feel like they’re not stupid, or something? I dunno.
But sometimes it’s also good to look back on it later when things are better, and realise that as despairing as you felt, it passed. And, further: you were never in a bubble at all.
I took a deep breath and requested extensions for the work I was supposed to be doing this week. I told some people how miserable I was and let their reassurances rest on me. Then this morning, a lovely friend – who is baby unaware, as yet – called to ask whether they could steal Henry for a couple of hours. How did they know? I put down the phone and was so pathetically grateful, I cried. And today I still feel horrendous, but well enough to sit under a duvet and work.
Pass me my helmet and spear; this bizniz is going DOWN.
Postscript: I am so grateful that I have someone who’s always ready to pick me up off the floor. Yoghurt-flavoured or no.