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27 Weeks, 4 Days

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27 Weeks, 4 Days

I was watching an old episode of The Office last night where Michael is “roughing it” at a woodsy corporate retreat, having ventured off on his own and dramatically acting as though he is Bear Grylls fighting for survival in Man vs. Wild when he is actually about ten feet from a camp site.  A premise that normally would have had me giggling at poor Michael’s expense, but in my current state…?  I was all, You hang in there, Michael!  You can do it! There may have been been a supportive fist pump or two thrown in there for good measure.

Yes.  Bed rest has made me relate to Michael Scott.  *Gulp*

You see, survival takes on a whole new meaning on bed rest.  Although civilization is right outside my window, I feel like a trapped animal in the confines of my bedroom, my eyes wild with thirst for a Starbucks latte.  But caffeine is now a forbidden fruit, as it might stimulate premature contractions, which is no doubt a relief for Mr. Candy who does not need a daily trip to Starbucks on top of the four-billion other things on his to-do list.  With food as one of my few remaining sources of pleasure, my paws scavenge the box on my desk for a snack — any kind of snack — to go with my lukewarm bottle of Crystal Light.  I do have a teensy-weensy fridge up here, but it only holds a couple of cans of Diet 7-Up.  So hot foods and cold drinks are a rare treat; I even have to wait until Mr. Candy gets home from work to sink my fangs into some Ben & Jerry’s frozen yogurt.  Meanwhile, the Internet tragically has become my best friend, allowing me to cling to any shreds of sanity —

Yeah, okay, so that part hasn’t changed.

It helps while I’m painting this heroic tale of survival if I don’t mention how I’m resting my butt on a Tempur-Pedic mattress, surrounded by beautiful flowers that Mr. Candy bought for me (yeah, he is so getting a piece… when I’m able to have sex again in 2013), an array of delicious goodies that he personally bought and delivered to me, an activity table and play area next to the bed for Skye, where I can lounge on the ground and color with her, and a flat-screen TV with a DVR full of trashy shows plus some entertainment for Skye.  I mean, sure, Bear Grylls has had to use the corpse of a sheep as a sleeping bag and drink fecal liquid from elephant dung, but has he ever survived his spouse buying regular popcorn when he actually asked for popcorn cakes?  I.  Don’t.  Think.  So.

Regular popcorn!  When I don’t even have a microwave up here!  Hmpf.  Hard to get good help these days, I tell ya.

In all honesty, I have good moments and not-so-good moments.  Passing the time isn’t as hard as you would think, given I spend the better part of my days working on the Internet, anyway.  Now I just do it lounging on the Tempur-Pedic.  Rough life, I know.  The heartbreaking part is, of course, not being able to take care of Skye as I want or explain why I can’t go anywhere.  She is cutting yet another molar and has been waking up in the middle of the night in pain, crying out for “Ma Ma Ma”… and I can’t grab her out of the crib and console her as every instinct in my body is aching to do.  All of you moms out there can appreciate how this just rips your heart to shreds.  Bad patient that I am, I do sneak over to her room with Mr. Candy and he will lift her out of the crib and put her on my lap, so I can rock her back to sleep — and Mr. Candy eventually puts her back in the crib.

I soak up every one of those moments.

We are all adjusting as well as can be expected.  Skye is confused, but enjoys the new play area-slash-kitchenette-slash-entertainment center in our room.  Mr. Candy is overwhelmed, but brags that he is going to have buns of steel after climbing our stairs a trillion times a day.  I am going to have buns of mush, but at least I can wear postnatal butt-lifting shapers.  (Glass half-full, people.)

And when I start to feel sorry for myself?  I just have to remember it could be worse:  I could be drinking fecal liquid from elephant dung.

Because sharing is caring, as I tell my kids. (Except my wine. Never my wine.)
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Candy Kirby is the founder of The Laughing Stork and a professional fun-maker who will never stop chasing her lifelong dream: to find the Pomeranian or porn star after whom her parents must have named her. A humor columnist for Disney, Nickelodeon, Scary Mommy, Reductress and Redbook, she also used to be a staff writer for the soap opera, The Bold and the Beautiful, where she penned many scripts featuring prolonged heated stares and countless “Who’s the Daddy?” story lines. Candy lives in Los Angeles with her husband, two young kids and three rescue Persian cats, the latter of whom are the real brains behind this operation (so send all complaints to them).

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