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Sometimes I think I can’t remember the Depression, can’t remember watching myself sink into the couch, too upset to move, full of self-loathing, apathy, and passive disinterest.

And then, it all comes back.  It’s only an hour and a half that Mr. Apron is gone – including travel time – but if I’m not glued to one screen (TV), I’m glued to another (computer, iPad), and still immobilized enough that the feelings from the Depression come rushing back.  Sometimes I can “bootstrap” myself out of it by running through a mental list of all the things I allegedly want to do.  I of course reject doing 99% of them, but by latching onto the smallest, least cumbersome chore, I am sometimes able to gather enough momentum to pull myself off the literal or figurative couch.  However, I think my list of tasks is too long tonight, or I’m so overwhelmed in general, that I’m just going to bask in the deluge of being stuck.

The babies are coming, the babies are coming.  I’m at 33 weeks gestation.  At 30 weeks, they weighed in at over 3 lbs each, and I’m estimating that by my next ultrasound this Friday, they’ll be at 4 lbs.  I’m still terrified of pre-term labor.  I had a scare around 27 weeks, where the ultrasound showed my cervix might be getting ready for labor.  Thankfully, I wasn’t showing any other signs, and clearly, I haven’t had the babies yet, but it still shocked me into a hyper aware state, much like how Mr. Apron behaved for about a week after he was pulled over, driving past the corner where he was caught in a speed trap.  After a while, the caution and sensitivity fade, and life returns to normal.

Unless you’re having twins.  They’re coming, pre-term or not.  At the outside, if I go full-term, I only have 7 weeks left.  And if I make it “full-term” for twins, which is only 37 weeks, I have less than a month.  I speak as if I’m facing a terminal illness instead of the birth of my children.  Still, I’m not ready.  I doubt that 4, or even 7 weeks would ever be enough time to prepare, mentally.  Sure, the cribs have been ordered, and the car seats lie in wait.  The stroller is in the basement, optimistic that we’ll ever set foot outside our house again once the babies are born.  I’m mourning the end of our life as a couple, of our life as adult-focused people.  I’m not even talking about so-called adult activities, like drinking, staying out until all hours, and beer pong.  I’m talking about our adult activities, like snuggling in the bed together, watching Antiques Roadshow together, botching home improvement projects together, and evening crafting/computer time together.  Our together time.  I know we’ll make time for these things that are important to us.  I know babysitters (aka in-laws) exist for a reason, and they will provide respite care so we can go out for an evening.  But I’m still scared.  And I know that despite our best efforts (and even successes!) at retaining the essence of who we are, who we were, before children, it can never be the same.

I’m scared I won’t be ready.  I never can be.  I’m excited to meet my babies.  I narcissistically can’t wait to see how they look like us.  I can’t wait for their new baby smells.

I know I won’t be able to have my pity parties anymore either.  There just won’t be a 90-minute block of time for me to be stuck.  There will be diapers and feedings, and burping and entertaining, and soothing and swaddling.  I’m scared.  I’m scared I’ll get stuck even though it will look different than it does now.  I want to enjoy my babies whether their father is home with us, or gone for an hour or a day.  I want to be the awesome mom I know in my heart of hearts I can be.  And I can’t let the Depression get in the way.

Well, Jeopardy! was a rerun from the Ken Jennings series, which I had no desire to watch, which means I’ve spent approximately the last hour trolling the internet doing nothing.  I complain to Mr. Apron I have no time to blog, but I could have written a novella in the past hour instead of looking for strange things on Craigslist. 

Sometimes I get stuck.  It’s usually a weeknight, usually when Mr. Apron is working late, or an evening after a slow day at work, and I just don’t feel like doing anything.  I’ve plugged back in my sewing machine after we rearranged the office post-painting, and even set up a full-size ironing board to replace the little travel-size dealie my mother complained about when she came to visit.  The new board is, appropriately, a house-warming gift from her.  I used to tutor in the evenings, sometimes 2 nights a week and often Sundays as well.  I would grumble and groan as I left the cozy couch, fuzzy dog, and company of my husband, to brave the cold evenings of tutoring.  I just wanted to be home, or just not to have to be somewhere.  Now, as the days get shorter, and I worry, like a lame-O suburbanite, about my precious prime parking spot, I’m reluctant to leave the house once it’s dark.  A far cry from my college student self, who would think nothing of getting on the 9:30pm shuttle to Boston just to walk around, and catch the 2:30am shuttle back to campus.  Not that I was a partier in anyway, but now I feel like I shouldn’t go out on a weeknight, like there’s a karmic prohibition on doing so. 

Tonight Mr. Apron is working late.  He came home for dinner, and now he’s back at work for a late meeting.  Unable to motivate myself to finish sewing a cute baby romper I constructed out of one of Mr. Apron’s old oxford shirts (what is it with all the babies being born?), even though I only have to sew on 2 buttons, make 4 button-holes, and hem the sleeves, I find myself floating between the two screens in our home — the TV and the computer.  At least I get exercise running up and down the steps between the office and the living room.  The bugger is, I don’t depend on Mr. Apron to entertain me.  I don’t need him to play Skip-Bo or Scrabble with me just to keep me busy.  There are many nights when I’m the one  frantically finishing “just one more step” of whatever project I’m invested in.  Yet I don’t want to relearn buttonholes on my fancy sewing machine.  I don’t want to bake cookies for the pre-wedding potluck we’re going to this weekend.  I don’t want to pick out a dress for the wedding.  I don’t want to read my new Japanese craft books or start the new novel Mr. Apron’s librarian mother picked out for me.  I don’t want to load the dishwasher or make my lunch for tomorrow.  I don’t want to do anything.

Melancholy?  Depression?  Agita?  Pick one.  I find myself lacking the motivation even to take a walk around the block in this safe neighborhood I told myself would be a boon to the lethargy I felt when we lived in the city and didn’t feel comfortable walking around at night.  I’m just stuck. 

I don’t often whine, moan, or bitch on this blog.  I’ve tried to keep it light, funny, heart-warming (where appropriate, but not too Chicken Soupy), and interesting.  Maybe a little snarky.  All blogs are supposed to be snarky.  But sometimes, when I’m stuck, the only thing I can do is realize that I am stuck.  I wonder when Mr. Apron will get home, and then I get sad that, as it’s already past 8:30, we’ll be starting to bed soon after he comes home, whenever that is, and I have to go to work tomorrow.  And that, I really don’t want to do.  An elderly seamstress named Amy, with whom I worked one summer, wisely told me, “That’s why they call it work.”

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