The other night I went to visit Lucy when she was laboring. Call me crazy, but I find labor more fascinating than just about anything else. I like to be in it, watch it, youtube it, all of it. What does this say about me? Sadist? Masochist? Mineral?
As Lucy hypno-breathed, I talked to her incredible midwife Suzanne about signs of progression in labor. During the conversation she referred to changes in labor stages as "transitions." Of course, having an obsession with delivery, I had heard the word before, as in "the pain was so excessive when I was transitioning that I wanted to give up the ghost" but this time the word was harvested in my head.
If I were to take a look at the garden of my weaknesses, one of my most fertile plants would be transitioning. I am a horrible transition-er. Not during labor, necessarily, but during life. For instance, every time there is a change in seasons, I feel it in my veins and I spend several days longing for nothing but my bed and unconsciousness.
Little transitions get me too. This morning I was folding my white laundry and listening to a cd my brother Topher (formerly the Jolly Porter-sniff) made me. During this ritual I was pleasant and hopeful about the day before me. As soon as all underwear, towels and white onesies were folded however, I resisted the transition to put them away. Instead, I left the basket-brimming with waiting laundry-and stared at The Chief as he navigated the basement stairs.
After he successfully climbed the stairs several times, I put The Chief to sleep. Instead of transitioning to finish the dishes, I doozed off in my bed. When a lawn mower to the east woke me up, I couldn't transition out of bed until I thought about a handful of peanut m&ms.
This is the crux of my problem, the only thing that inspires my transitioning is food. Good food riddled with sugar and/or salt. A cupcake from Stephanie last night got me through a really tough transition from watching a documentary about the Taliban in Pakistan (no thanks!) up to bed. And this morning the thought of graham crackers smeared with Chup's heavenly frosting got me up and out of it. And whats more, if transitions cause me to wait, like when Chup calls me and says he is leaving work and I have to wait an hour for him to get through the door, I WILL EAT THE ENTIRE HOUR.
The five o'clock hour is no good for me. Obviously.
You see, my inability to transition is impeding my transformation from one dress size down to the next. And these sorts of things I am trying to not care about, only that I do care about them a lot.
And just as I was about to end and publish this post, I prolonged the transition and went instead to facebook and looked at random photos from old friends. This post would be really long if it were up to me, in fact I wish I could spend the entire day writing it, only because I wouldn't reach for food to help me get on to the next stage.
You see my point right? I need to weed this one out. If anyone has any good ideas let me know. Ok?
Mmmm . . . a bag full of carrots!
Maybe I'll press "spell check" one more time.
Chup is spelled right.
And . . .
I should try and sharpen that photo of Chup's frosting on graham crackers.
Keebler or Honey Maid graham crackers?
This is bad.