December 12, 2005
I keep poking the baby. I can't help it. I need to feel him move.
I'll start by gently rubbing. If that fails, I start calling, "Baaa-by? baaa-by? What's going on in there? Let mama feel you wiggle." As a last resort, I'll push on the fanny until I get something.
So last night, Tom started poking me in the head. "Maaar-tha? Maaar-tha? Let me see you move." Poke in my neck. Poke in my back. Okay, I get the point. Our baby probably does not appreciate all these taps and pushes, especially if I'm waking her.
Losing My Marbles
I just can't help that I've developed a need for constant reassurance.
Last week, I debated calling my OB when my baby got the hiccups three times in one day. Usually he only hiccups once a day, between 8:00 and 9:00 p.m. With the last vestiges of self-respect falling from my body, I finally dialed the office. They assuaged my fears and gave me the option of coming in if I were still worried.
Two days later, I was convinced I had carbon monoxide poisoning. With a day of fatigue ending in a vomiting episode, I was certain our furnace had a leak.
I knew that maybe, just maybe, my fatigue had something to do with an overly busy week. And the vomitting-- well, a large enough serving of movie popcorn will do that to you, especially if you begged for a triple serving of butter. Still, off I went to Home Depot at 8:00 p.m., unwilling to go to sleep without installing a new detector.
I woke up the next morning back to my energetic self, and the detector has yet to sound.
Who have I become? These hormones just excite my every thought and whim. I think in exclamation points. Seriously, "That was an incredible sandwich! I need to take the garbage out! Tom put the shampoo in the wrong place! Time to do the dishes!"
My brain has turned into an annoying ALL-CAPS EMAIL.