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I should have stayed in bed today.

Today is day three of a migraine.  It’s too late to take drugs that would have any measurable effect on it.  I woke up Saturday, sure it was just a headache from crying my brains out after my “talk” with my mother.  I figured I could work through a regular headache, but by the time it had turned into a migraine, it was too late.  Too late, even, for my Tylenol + caffeine (Frappucino) trick, which I tried yesterday, to no effect.  I called the doctor’s office this morning, and left a message asking what I could take.  I waited all morning with bated breath, willing my phone to ring.  Ring it did, when I was with a student.  I finally listened to the voicemail, which said to take Tylenol.  Wonder drug of do-nothing.

I dropped my pizza in the dirt at lunch, and my yogurt sprung a leak (why did they ever do away with the plastic lids???) in my lunch bag.  Even though I tossed it in a plastic bag this morning (thus negating any environmental savings from eschewing a plastic lid), it oozed all over its containment sack, and I had to eat it using the Ziploc as a protective shield. I kept biting my cheek during lunch.  I bit it once this weekend, and it perpetuates as my teeth keep catching on the mess of my gums. 

I wish this school had a nice, soft, comfy couch in the faculty lounge.  Or a faculty lounge, for that matter.  We do, sure enough, have a door marked as such, but it’s the euphemistic “lounge” you find in department stores – a bathroom.  I used to love taking my break on that couch, blissfully unanxious about sleeping through the entire afternoon.  I would take my lunch with the kids, too hungry at that point to stand on formality of eating with grown-ups.  Then I’d have my entire 45-minute break to snooze, just as the kids were doing not too far away.  Even better, sometimes I’d lie down next to the kids, on the soft, carpeted floor, in the darkened room, while the soothing music played.  Ostensibly, I was providing the model of calmness, stillness, and enticement to nap.  In reality, I was resting.  On the few occasions I would fall asleep, the creaking open of the door when my lead teacher would return from her break would startle me enough to wake me, and I would check on my sleeping charges, then go take my own break.

Today is a day I could use a nap, and so I am longing for the comfort of that couch.  Grad school had such couches, and though they were by no means as comfortable, I still managed to catch up on a few minutes sleep now and then, during my 10-hour days. 

I couldn’t even muster up my usual level of patience for the fidgety kids.  I was not up for telling S. to put the marker away 6 times, to get out her planner 3 times, to just put down all the fidget toys (see: office supplies) on the desk.  I chose a passage for us to read about theGolden GateBridge, and it was too hard. 

I saved myJaffacakes — special little delicacies from my cousin inEngland– for my afternoon snack, but I’m biting my cheek even with them.  And of course, the migraine persists.  . I’ve been awake since 3:30, miserably tossing and turning and designing lesson plans in lieu of sleeping.  Put me to bed.  I want a do-over on this day.

It’s a good thing so few people read my blog, or I’d never have the nerve to put up this kind of post. 

Ah, the mood-stabilizing caffeine is finally kicking in.  Or maybe I’m just safely out of the public sphere.  I should not be allowed out of my bed, much less the house, when I’m in a state like this.  I should have known it wasn’t going to be all sunshine and roses, even on the Saturday before Valentine’s Day.  I accused the erratic heating system at work of causing my migraine yesterday, but I was in denial that a migraine is usually the harbinger of my period.  Or, more precisely, the dashing of my hopes of pregnancy for yet another cycle.  When I awoke this morning to a continued headache, surprised I had been able to sleep at all, and dribbled toothpaste down my new shirt, I just knew.  These things come in threes.  Sure enough, no baby this month.

Were my hopes any higher this cycle than usual?  My digital, idiot-proof fertility monitor had actually green-lighted ovulation 2 weeks ago, so I was optimistic.  Mr. Apron and I tried our most dutifully to make a baby.  After some wrangling, I’d made a (back-up) appointment with a fertility doctor.  And yet, this morning, as I saw the wall of chances come crumbling down, it still crushed me as hard as ever.

I tried go out, pick up my new glasses, buy our special peanut butter, do some bullshit shopping, just to keep myself busy and occupy my mind, rather than sitting home and wallowing in self-pity, but there’s no use.  The littlest things are setting me off, and I’m seething with vitriol at my body’s failure to do what I’ve commanded it to.   A woman at Bed, Bath & Beyond directs me to the “other side of the store” to find the dog beds.  I find nothing except doggy stairs (to let the dog access the human bed), couch/car seat covers (for when the dog is lying on those human furnishings), and doggy towels (microfiber towels with a dog-print on it, so you know it’s for dogs).  As I head out the door by the register, the cashier tosses off her mandatory, “Did you find everything you were looking for?”  and I bark back, accusatorily, “You don’t actually have dog beds, do you?”  “What?” She is taken aback.  “I mean, for real dogs.  You don’t have them, do you?”  Of course they don’t.  But she told me they did.  I go into Starbucks to try to get the caffeine jolt that usually lessens the stubborn migraine’s grip on me (now entering its 23rd hour).  My usual caffeine intake is restricted and so minimal, that a junky, girly Frappuccino is enough to send me into a hyper, happy buzz, and hopefully kill the headache as well.  Why would the drink-making chippy ask if I wanted whipped cream after I specified I wanted soy milk in my Frappuccino? Especially after the register-chippy already wrote a line through “WC” on the cup? I should have stayed in bed today.  As my eyes tear up, I grab my drink and rush to the car, only to find myself boxed in by 2 enormous SUVs. 

I hate that Starbucks, with its impossible parking lot.  I hate the oversized SUVs the WASPy tooth-bleaching moms drive in my neighborhood.  I hate having to explain common-sense things to people; and I hate when they lie to me about what their store carries.  Maybe I could tolerate this bullshit any other day, but not when I’m fit to burst from disappointment and frustration. 

On these days, when I hate my body, I want to punish it somehow.  As soon as I find out I’m not pregnant, I want to go on an anti-pregnancy bender of sorts.  If I were a drinker, I bet I’d be reaching for a bottle.  I want to purge all the precautions from my body.  Caffeine?  Feta cheese?  Eating well?  Vitamins?  Exercising?  I want to simultaneously make a clean start and scrub it all away, and trash all the things I’d been doing, on the chance I’d be pregnant.  Which I never am.  As my body is punishing me by denying me the baby I want so dearly, I want to punish it for failing me.  I want to ignore my Good Girl GI diet and eat greasy disgusting things to make myself sick.  I want to skip my prudent breakfast, and eat nothing but two rolls for lunch.  As a non-drinker, I don’t have a full toolbox of methods to actually make myself sick, but I think I’d be drinking it all away if I could. 

If I go out, if I pretend everything’s okay, and go about my business, am I denying myself the opportunity to be sad?  If I stay home and bathe myself in self-pity, marinating in my own filth and self- loathing, is that any better? 

As I do my errands, I am reminded acutely that all am I doing is distracting myself again with bullshit.  I look around my house and see more claptrap nonsense: the stand mixer (still in its box) my mother gave us for Hanukkah that we’ll probably never use; the first season of “The Wire” that I have no interest in watching with my husband; the dogs and their fur-covered trappings; the feeble attempts at suburban homey-ness; and all the crap we use to keep ourselves busy.  Right now I don’t want any of it.  What I want is a baby, and no amount of bargaining or mourning or self-flagellation is going to bring it to me.

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