Not small-for-dates after all

Hooray! My small-for-dates baby is normal-sized!

We had our sonogram today, and baby is just fine. "Not too big, not too small," the sonogram technician said.

This is such good news. I told myself and everyone else I wasn't worried, but in my head I was thinking maybe I should pack an overnight bag in case I was sent immediately to the hospital for an emergency C-section.

Henry, on the other hand, took a face-first dive off his chair onto the brick floor of the patio at Dona Tomas restaurant this evening. I was droning on about American political consultants while trying to maximize the amount of mole salsa I got on my tortilla chip when he just lurched away and smacked down.

I usually make a point of staying calm when he bonks something, but this time his face was covered in blood from the nose down. So he was bawling, I was sobbing with guilt, and Simon was trying to get the busboy to bring us some ice.

The ice stopped the crying because Henry became focused on eating each piece as I tried to ice his lip down. Then he just wanted his beans and rice. Within three minutes all that was left of the accident was his fat lip and three bloody white napkins. Oh, and blood stains down the front of his shirt. He looked like a street thug.

Simon said, "Should we get them to wrap up the food?"

"No way," I said. Honestly, how often do we go out to eat? OK, pretty often. But usually to the burger place, not someplace nice.

On the career front, I've sent two query letters and gotten no response from either magazine. I know, editors are busy, but can they at least type a "No thanks"? Something. Anything. At this point I'd take a Simon Cowell response--"This is atrocious, stop writing now." I just want to know--are they not responding because they didn't get it, the topic is too narrow, or it's so appallingly bad that my letter is now stuck on the office bulletin board next to yesterday's Bizarro cartoon?

Well, of course I'll keep sending my queries around. It's not boldness or determination. I just have nothing better to do with Henry's naptimes.

"Small for dates"

Hi. I'm feeling better since my last blog entry.

Honestly, I fall into a pit of despair so easily. Most of the time I really love my life. Or at least like it a lot. It's just once in a while that I wonder how I can get through another day.

It's hard because there are not many people I can talk to when I slip into severe depression, which happens for a couple of days every month or so. I know everyone has mood swings, but I think most people don't swing so far into the my-life-is-agony realm. So then I feel depressed and isolated.

Thank God for a couple of people in my life who understand. I don't know what it is about empathy, but it is better than Prozac. Just having someone else who can say, "Oh, yeah, one of those days where you have no reason to live. I hate those." It's brilliant.

At any rate, it is hard to stay down for long with Henry around. Yesterday we went to the Little Farm in Tilden Park, where he fed celery to goats and one large cow. The cow mooed very loudly at one point, and Henry clutched me as if for dear life. Now it's all he talks about. "Big cow," he says, in his deep scary voice. Then he says, "Mmmmmmoooooooooo" with such intensity his fists shake. He makes it sound like we saw Godzilla.

On the crest of feeling good, I had my 32 week prenatal appointment today, and Dr. Schleuning said I was "measuring small." I said, "Good," because up until now my biggest concern was a 10 pound baby. But apparently that's really not good, because now I need to go in for another ultrasound to see why baby isn't growing as fast as she or he has been and should be.

Schleuning said it could be any number of things, including the fact that the baby is just in a sideways position. But of course I can't stop thinking about other things it could be, like intrauterine growth restriction caused by a placental abruption.

Dr. Schleuning also said it may take a week or two to get an ultrasound appointment, and she wasn't worried about that. So maybe it's nothing.

Meanwhile baby is kicking around like a star athlete, as usual. She/he does not seem particularly concerned either.

Beyond depressed

So long since I've written. Not that anyone reads this.

Henry is 2! It's a miracle we've kept him alive this long. Alive and, by all apparent measures, thriving.

And now I'm just two months away from another one.

Joy. Right?

Quite the contrary.

I am so depressed I can't write. I can barely sleep, yet I'm tired all the time. I can barely abide sitting here, because I am so disgusted with my enormous self.

I am wary of therapists since my last one flipped out on me. Also, I don't think we have the money. Oh, yeah, and now that Simon is travelling every week, I don't have any free time.

I would exercise, but all the prenatal classes are in the evening, and, again, I'm flying solo during the week.

I know--excuses, excuses.

In the meantime, I hate myself, I hate my life. I would kill myself without hesitation if it weren't for Henry. I may have ruined my own life, but I will not ruin his.