I’m a bit late in writing this week. I usually write on a Saturday, but it’s Monday, the day after your Dad’s birthday. We went down to the beach house for his birthday. I’m sorry to say that your poor Dad did not have a good day though – at least, not as good as usual. Traditionally, I like to spoil your Dad on his birthday. I like to surprise him with breakfast in bed. One year, I got up at 6am just so I could get him breakfast before he woke up and had to go to work. He was not in the mood for food at all – it may have been a bit of a fail. One year I surprised him with a massive cake from Cacao. The cake cost me $45 or something and we ate the whole thing ourselves over the course of week. This was around the same time we were going through our “fat phase”, which is that comfortable phase when you first start living together, eating together and doing little exercise other than having sex every five minutes. Fortunately, we woke up to ourselves and started finding new ways of exercising, and healthier ways of eating!
Anyway, this year was a reverse. This year involved your father looking after me, cooking me breakfast and trying to restrain himself from vomiting while he watched me heave in the car for about 10 minutes straight. We were on our way to lunch in Koonwarra. Suffice to say, it wasn’t the greatest of days. In fact, the whole weekend was a bust. I have not been this sick yet. It was absolutely awful. I was constantly on the brink of tears, and all I wanted to do was to be able to function, just to be able to butter a roll and eat it. It sounds pathetic, but sometimes just getting up and going to the toilet is the hardest thing in the world.
Luckily, today I feel much better. I seem to be horrendously ill on the weekends and then manage to get through the week. I can’t help but wonder if it’s psychological. I’m so determined to get through the working week, I push myself through it. Then I’m so tired from trying all week, I just spend the weekend on the couch, wallowing in self pity. Meanwhile, I long to feel well enough to vacuum the floor, clean the windows, dust. It’s pathetic! Anyway, I’m told this feeling will be over in a couple of weeks, so I’m looking forward to that.
Feeling like this has made it very difficult for me to get excited about your arrival. All I want is to feel better, and nothing else matters to me at the moment. Then again, this weekend your father and I were walking back from the beach (I may have vomited on the way), and we were talking about how you might have his skin, his freckly, easily burnt skin (as opposed to my look-at-the-sun-and-tan skin). Your Dad talked about us having to rub sun lotion on your chubby little arms, and my heart melted at the thought of your little rolls, and your soft, soft baby skin, wrapped up in some hideous fluorescent swimming suit that all children seem to have these days. I was grateful to your Dad for making me realise how nice it’s going to be, despite the vomiting in the street or in plastic bags in the car.