Surviving bed rest, aka, How to be a floating head in a jar

I may be short, but I'm brutish in strength and mental fortitude. It's called Napoleon complex and ladies have it too. I'm the type who gives birth after 24 hours of labor and crawls down from the table like, I'll meet you at the car, man. I don't care if my entrails are dragging on the ground behind me, I'm gonna get outta that pen and waltz back to my own home where I can be the boss of things in peace. I have a high tolerance for pain. I once had surgery while not fully numb. I had a cavity drilled without Novocaine. I've been knocked unconcious by a moving street train and checked myself out of the ER four hours later. [Blows on biceps.] In short, I am a terrible patient, so you know what I can't stand? Bed rest. It's like being in time-out for infinity.

I'm having a hard time with this pregnancy because I seem to be failing at all the things I'm usually good at: being lucky, coming out on top, growing people in my abdomen and the latest: doing physical things. You see, after a scary midnight trip to the labor & delivery unit the other night, I've been put on modified bed rest to protect the remaining twin. No swimming. No running around in the yard. No showing off my amazing ability to still do the splits at five months pregnant. Nada. I'm on the couch folks. This is a problem. Big.

Bed rest means I must rely on others. I'm sorry, did you not read the part about how I'm a Spartan-German hybrid who always has an escape hatch? If the zombie apocalypse comes, I'm going to hoist my family on my back like a rogue soldier and roam the suburban wilderness bartering for grain? Yeah. Now I'm relying on my mother-in-law to bring me water.

Survival tips, a guide written for me, by me:

1. I must let other people do things their way. Imagine! I'm not keen on Buh-stell wearing small, ugly pants from the "can't throw it out, so let's ignore it" hand-me-down drawer, but as the resident invalid, I've got to let other people help. You cannot dictate volunteers. Yes, I may be slowly imploding from the amount of crumbs on the floor, but my anal-retentive vacuum habit has to be shelved until October. Right now, it's Oma's way. I will breathe through daytime television with Lamaze-style coping.

2. I must stop being a grouch. No, I'm not happy walking like 18 steps a day and feeling the disturbing burn of my muscles atrophying while gathering a layer of fat so thick I could power an igloo. I must be nice. Or maybe quiet? Look, no one likes a bellowing quadriplegic.  I'm starting to remind myself of Throw Mama From The Train. OWEN! GET ME A COKE OWEN!  She got poisoned from her caretakers, so I better get my act together.

3. I've got to check my ego. This isn't about me, it's about the cute little face on the ultrasound screen. You know, lonely ole Bossy Pants. It's hard to sit here and feel guilty about not taking the kids swimming or letting them gnaw on fishy crackers and their own thumbs for lunch*, but it's a short time in our lives and it needs to be done. Humph. I do feel sidelined, but my feelings are second to the baby's health. SELF: Please soak this in and stop threatening to break dance.

4. Don't go broke. Two days of this bed rest, ahem, modified bed rest (dude, I can drive! Let me breathe!) and I've already racked up a three-digit tally on Etsy and ordered a rug. Since I'm a stay-at-home mom anyway, this basically makes me worth even more negative dollars. Don't you wish I was taking up room on your couch? Mr. Karvunidis is a lucky guy!

5. Get a hobby. I mean besides yelling at people and shopping. Now is the time to perfect my Chinese (ching ge wo err bing pijio! See? I can still order a beer after only $400 worth of mandarin lessons!) or take up chair disco. I might even become one of those Farmville people. Is that still a thing? Did Manti Teo's girlfriend ever recover from her cancer?

Look, I just have to get used to being powerless. I'm like a floating, angry head in a jar who's all, "STOP! PUT THAT DOWN! CAN YOU VACUUM? CAN SOMEONE GRAB ME A YOGURT BUT NOT A LEMON ONE? THOSE ARE GROSS" but I have to start being all kind and humble like, "please sir, may I have another bowl of mush?"

Help me in this journey. Or just send me some great time wasting sites in the comments.

 

*Kidding. I let them scavenge for pigeons.

surviving bed rest

Except my hair is in a side pony tail from yesterday and I'm scowling from behind Lisa Loeb glasses. Also, imagine me surrounded by fast food litter.

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