Late at night, one little thing can tip the scales, and last night it did.  We had a stupid argument about a grocery bag (wouldn’t you like to be a fly on our wall?), and in a stupor of sadness, my mind started playing association games with my feelings.  Not like word-association (goose bumps, Christmas goose, Christmas music, claw my ears out), but feeling-association.

As in, Oh, I’m sad.  Let’s think about the other things in my life that are depressing me right now and fixate on them until I’m upset about being sad and Mr. Apron is upset, too, and it’ll be a miracle if we both manage to sleep that night, but that wouldn’t be a change from the rest of the week, so who cares?

We are trying to get away for a few days around Christmas, since it would work out with Mr. Apron’s work schedule.  He’s finally off probation, so he’s actually allowed to take a measly day off, and we were trying to take a long weekend up to see my parents/do some skiing.  But of course, when we planned it out (read: thought briefly about it by looking at the calendar), we simply counted on Mr. Apron’s parents providing dog walking services, and thought no more of it.  But they’ll have The Baby on Saturday, and yes, it takes 3 adults to watch a 15 month old.  It was even suggested (by one such adult) that we take them with us to my parents.  Beyond breaking the city-law of 3 dogs/household (my parents already have 3), it makes for less chaos to have 5 dogs (one of whom is relatively new to the clan and hasn’t met my parents’ nutso territorial hounds yet) in one house than it does to ask for 3 dog walks on a day when they’re baby-sitting my nephew?  Sure. 

All this because the puppy is still being crate-trained, and can’t be left in the house unattended.  I feel immense guilt at the prospect of her being confined all day and all night (she’s now used to sleeping with us) in her crate, with only breaks for her walks.   So the schemes and plans came out –I’d go out and visit my parents on my own, to “fulfill” that part of the plan.  Then I’d come home and we’d take a 2-day stupid ski trip or something together.  Or, we’d try to pawn the puppy off on a friend, and leave the older dog at home for my in-laws to take care of. 

And while I was obsessing about which friend could possibly handle the puppy responsibility, I began to think about how few friends we have that we could ask.  How few friend I have, especially locally.  I began to think about how we’ll never go on vacation again.  At least not together.  By the time the puppy can be out of her crate all day unsupervised, it’ll be six years from now (when I’m depressed, I’m prone to exaggeration), and maybe by that time we’ll have a baby.

Which put me on a jag about pregnancy, the miscarriage, ovulation – you name it.  The miscarriage last fall and the subsequent depression into the depths of winter led to overall feelings of listlessness, complacency, and boredom.  My job was rapidly becoming inhospitable, and our lives were a little too easy.  So we brought home the puppy.  Every time I think about getting her, it brings back the miscarriage.

Every morning now, I’m using the fertility monitor.  I’m waiting, waiting for it to tell us that today’s the day to dive under those flannel sheets, that today’s our best day, that today will change the course of our lives.  That I’m ovulating.  As I turned it on this morning and read “17” (day 17 of my cycle) and learned I am still not ovulating, it just reinforced all this despair. 

Something’s wrong with my body, our puppy, our vacation, and I feel powerless.  I feel sad.