Frying the motherboard
My laptop is dead. For realsies. R.I.P. old ornery Mac with the busted everything and blue wires coming out the back. This is one of those times when it’s appropriate to say, “It was expected. He’s (she’s?) in a better place.” That poor thing was chugging along on a wing and a prayer toward the end. It’s funny now that it’s out of commission how I kind of feel like I’ve misplaced something at night after the kids are in bed. Like I’m looking for my glasses, or was it that glass of water I poured five minutes ago? But, no: It’s my laptop. And all my pictures and movies and files and urrrgh. Backed up on some remote server far away thanks to a man to whom I pay $10 a month (thank goodness, holy moly), but still. Not accessible. Access denied.
So I’m poaching some minutes on L’s laptop in the meantime, and can I just pause for a hot second and show you his computer’s wallpaper?
I just … I can’t. How can I be expected to work under those conditions? Not possible. So we ponied up and spent money we didn’t have on a new (to me) laptop, refurbed and streamlined and full of all the things I need like iMovie, iPhoto, lots of storage and, you know, working parts.
Without making too much of a leaping eye-roller of an analogy, I kind of feel like my body is a little like that worn out old Mac sitting on our dining room table with a black screen. I am walking around with blue wires sticking out of my back and a top that doesn’t quite meet the bottom in proper alignment and a battery that can no longer hold its charge. A third pregnancy in a body that I haven’t been able to take care of, haven’t tended to how it deserves, is taking its toll. I hobble where I used to walk. I get winded from an animated conversation. I hold my back when I rise out of a chair, wincing and grimacing and sucking air through my teeth. It’s no bueno. I should have been more attentive to my diet/exercise/sleep habits/stress levels/everythings. (Other children, job, husband, laundry, hygiene …) But the truth is, I did what I could with the time I had available. And besides, all’s not said and done yet. I’m only at week 33. Seven weeks to go, right? Totally time for a revamped, new me. The refurbished, streamlined version of my pregnant self who does prenatal yoga every night before my 9 p.m. bedtime and who rises to greet the day with a kale smoothie in hand.
Or I can just keep going on a wing and a prayer, hoping that my battery lasts until this baby comes and I can walk without listing once again. Because everyone knows that once the baby comes, life’s a total piece of cake.
Yes, I feel better just thinking about it.