I am cutting this short because James and I are watching one of our shows. In case you're wondering about the abrupt ending. Which is TOTALLY uncharacteristic for me, right?
2.0 has FINALLY started napping decently on her own. However, the nighttime sleeping? Not so good. Okay, it's actually really good for an 8-week old, but she keeps jerking me around. Four nights in a row last week, she slept from around midnight to around 8 or 9. Then back to just six hours, then she slept nine, and last night it was six again. Yarrr. Grace was a lousy napper at this point, but once she started sleeping a long time at night, she never looked back.
What do you know? Every child is different.
(In other news, sky is blue, bears poo in the woods, and dogs pee on brick walls!)
In a totally uncharacteristic move, I tried to remove a fingertip today. Someday I will learn that I should not try to slice things that are still in my hand.
I have been ellipticalling (Shut up. I like it. It's clunky. Just like the machines are.) every day for two weeks. I have more energy. A will to live. My waistline is a wee bit smaller, though not, unfortunately, where my pants lie; my love handle flesh has been clinging determinedly to my skeleton since, oh, 11th grade.
The downside? I have a bum knee. I've thought it might be in my head all these years. Or that it was the high impact of running that did me in every time I tried to get in shape again. But running on the elliptical is almost no impact, and the stiffness in my knee is not in my head. The more I use it, the better it feels (while I'm using it), but every morning I wake up it's like rigor mortis has set in.
This means going to the doctor. Again. I love my OBs, but it took a lot for me to even make an appointment when I first found out I was pregnant. For a day or so, I entertained thoughts of giving birth in my living room, completely unassisted by any kind of medical professional, midwife or nurse. Which would have gone really, really well, I know.
Right now I'm entertaining thoughts of just exercising the bumness out of my stupid knee. Maybe if I get strong enough, it won't matter that a ligament or piece of cartilage or whatever is flapping around in there. Maybe I can perform surgery on myself or rig up my own X-ray machine.
Ten bucks says I go to the doctor, he looks at my knee and says, "Oh, your flimabibbit is just stuck to the spactaloot. Easy fix!" And then he nudges the kneecap, something pops, and voila! Done! And I will kick myself for a week for not getting this taken care of six years ago.
Or whenever all the trouble started. I think it might have been when I tried to jump over a box in Jeremy's parents' cement-floored garage and tripped. I only weighed about 130 then, but all 130 lbs landed on my knee from about three feet in the air.
Can I just take a minute to tell you how painful that was? No, I can't. It's indescribable. Let me try, though. With Grace, I had intense back labor for ten hours. I thought I was going to die. It was like a thousand very clumsy men were patting me on the back. With sledgehammers. Now imagine all ten hours of that condensed into one kneecap in one instant.
Yeah, I cried.