I have a secret confession to make. And here I am, professing it to the world.
I always thought bedrest would be sort of fun. When I heard of other women in pregnancies who needed to go on bedrest I imagined fluffy bed jackets and bon-bons. I imagined a perfectly coiffed woman resting on over-stuffed pillows while she caught up on all the latest Booker Prize awards, or who dutifully finished that baby afghan she'd been quilting, content in her little nest.
And then, yesterday, sweet Dr. S. said, "To bed, or to the couch, with a heating pad and Tylenol around the clock and don't get up until Monday." And I thought, "Holy Mary, Mother of God, what will I do on the couch." Nevermind the fact that R. has perhaps the largest DVD collection in the tri-state area, or that our library is filled with unread books that I keep sighing and saying, "If only I had the time..." as I drape my fingers across their glossy covers. Nevermind that it's only four freakin' days and certainly not the weeks and weeks that some women have to endure. Nevermind that it's mostly for my own comfort and that I have no need to worry about the health of the baby.
All in all, I'm pretty damn lucky that it is what it is (a terribly pulled and inflamed side and back brought about by a minor fall). And I do have a tremendous new empathy for my sisters in the world who are confined to their beds for months and weeks on end.
But, it's sort of lonely here in this house during the day (even after only two days). And I haven't been able to teach the dog to play dominoes.
I suppose my Polly-Annaish side would remind myself to just lie still and count my blessings, but the hormonal third-trimesterite who runs my mind lately would rather curl in a ball and wail.
It is what it is. And there it is.