I had virtuous visions of getting up at 7am and plowing through various work-related tasks. Instead, I'm still in my jammies in bed after a solid double-digit sleep. The previous two nights had been interrupted by hollering Kid or cramping Uterus, with sides of various Housepets clamoring to be let in/let out/or just to let you know, something is not quite to my satisfaction. Hence I heard the rumble of garbage trucks this morning and knew I was sleeping in...and luxuriated in it.
So lessee, what's is new? Got the results of my fluids-testing back and pinpointed the cause of my poor health: significant ferritin depletion. The deadly and exotic are ruled out in favour of plain-jane anemia, thank god. Although I am an uneasy omnivore, the frequency and intensity of my periods are the equivalent of constantly nursing a colony of leeches. The occasional steak cannot by itself right this balance, alas. I'm taking my iron supplements now and feeling better by the day.
My record-breaking three periods in July were followed by another record-breaking zero period in the month of August. A stretch of 34 days! It's been 26 years since I had a period-free month. I was not too worried. The Man was alternately relieved and repelled by my reassurances:
Woman: I'm not pregnant, in case you were wondering.
Man: Oh. That's good...took some more home-pregnancy tests, did we?
Woman: Two. Negative. Think I bled out in July.
Man: Oh.
Woman: But I'm not worried. Got some PMS-diarrhea now. The cramping usually starts in the back and moves forward, so we should be good to go in the next few days.
Man: Oh. That's nice. (pause) Can we please stop talking about this now?
Woman: Of course, dear. Say, can I borrow some toilet paper? I'm out at my house.
And so it goes. Sure enough, period arrived with relish (Hey, did you miss me?! Grab your pads and cotton bullets and Advil, I'm back!). It is a rather awesome spectacle.
Prior to bloodletting, we went camping with the Kid on the weekend. Fun one day, trifle hellish and sleepless the next. Par for the course, I understand.
A few days later, took the Man to the city for a midweek getaway: float-planes in and out, stay at a five-star downtown hotel (a plug for hotwire here: Hotwire is good.), concert tickets to Nashville Pussy and the Reverend Horton Heat. Very nice to get away, get a little drunk and eat cheap pizza past midnight. No rushing.
I've realized recently that I truly dislike being rushed. (It's the difference between a good time and a lousy one for me: We gotta go here before it closes! We gotta meet this person across town in 10 minutes! Etc!) I prefer to underschedule instead. (This morning's agenda: Breakfast.)
The Man is coming around to my way of thinking. He has a great zest for living, and likes to pack his schedule accordingly, to squeeze as much as possible out of every day. Whereas I have a great appreciation for living, and like to have empty space to accommodate reflection on whatever needs reflecting. An active versus passive approach to enjoyment, perhaps.
In other news, the Man's Ex-Woman is making her presence known these days. Sigh. I do not understand her. That is the kindest thing I can say. Pointed criticisms would be so typical for a New Girlfriend to make, would they not? Well, take heart that I am neither a younger woman (she arrived in this world exactly one month before yours truly), nor one claiming to be the epitome of the divine feminine, etc. But I'm not a fucking wingbat either (Oops! Does that count as a pointed criticism? More like an instrument of blunt trauma.)
Sigh. However, I am not entirely without sympathy. The Kid, you see, cottoned onto my name right away. She sing-songs it incessantly. She intones it many times a day with an ever-increasing urgency and pitch. She wakes up in the middle of the night shouting it. And O, it gets better: despite consistent correction from both my partner and I, lately she has taken to prefixing my name with a "Mumma".
Even I, soulless childless career-woman spinster wretch that I am, cannot help but feel some sympathy for the mother. I get to be dad's goodtime-galpal, who never has to discipline or change shitty diapers or put up with 24/7 demands for Dora the Whora or things which all sound like "juice" but turn out to be shoes or 'toons or something no adult can decipher, which leads to tiny towering rages and screaming oneself hoarse like a demented midget. It must feel like a kick in the heart to have your two-year old prattle on about some mumma-like woman in her life.
Myself, I try to downplay it to my partner, who does have to put up with the explosively shitty diapers and forced teethbrushing and the rest of grind that is part and parcel of having toddlers. I can detect a little edged bemusement now when he is ordered away by his own flesh-and-blood but I am allowed to stay.
I do feel the compliment, but at times wish that the wee one was not quite so lavish in her attentions. I've taken to withdrawing unbidden from certain scenarios, and making sure I'm not overly-helpful. Ha! What a goddamn saint, eh? If you'd told me last year I'd have a two-year old crushing on me in 2011, I would have thought you dotty. However, so it goes.
My weak reassurance for my partner (and by proxy, I hope it trickles down to the ex in some form eventually) is that the Kid has a surplus of well-meaning and doting adults in her life, and I am lucky to be one, whatever I'm called.
And now I go to beach out on what looks to be one of the last fine hot weekends of 2011.
Anonymously yours,
----
