April 03, 2005
Yiddish Proverb Sunday! Read, so you should learn!
Why Yiddish proverbs? Because it's my blog, and I like 'em. Also see here.
Dang, this week's is a good one.
If I would be like someone else, who would be like me?
Embryo = Parasite
"Dear Reader: My apologies. I'm drifting in and out of sleep..."
Not to whine or nothin', but DANG do I feel crappy. Exhausted, nauseated, mind-fogged -- it's like a flu that I just can't recover from. Apparently this is "normal" for the first trimester. Funny; everyone hears about the morning sickness, but how many first-time mothers expect the bone-breaking tiredness? I think this information is intentionally embargoed in order to ensure the survival of the species.
Instead of useful information like "expect to be a knuckle-dragging zombie for the first three months," I've been preconditioned with dire warnings about passing the age of 35 from the media and even from friends: After 35, your fertility drops precipitously, suddenly! Your eggs are withered and old; your child is all but guaranteed to have Down's or some other heinous birth defect, and who's to blame? YOU, selfish yuppie, for wanting to "be established" in your "career" and "life" and "finances" before you perform the function we deem you to have been created for! Oh, and you'll be in a walker at the kid's high school graduation! Is that what you want? Well, is it? Just don't say we didn't warn you, Ms. "I wanted to know who I was before I started raising kids"!
Sure, an endless torrent of scare tactics designed to terrify you into spawning 15 minutes after midnight on the day you reach the age of consent in your state. But nary a warning about the endless, grinding feeling of your life-force being sucked from your marrow.
I don't intend to give up blogging. In my few lucid 15-minute periods, before the quease whacks me in the solar plexus again with the nausea-bat, I have lots of ideas about things to write. But I can't execute any of them. I'm sorry. Greedy Gus takes precedence right now; he refuses to share me.
Luckily, EtherHub is an angel and puts up with my sluggish schlepping around the house, whining -- that is, when I'm not in bed, letting him do all the work around the house. (Though, as I often remind him, mostly in jest, "You're the one that put me in this condition!")
I suppose that the world will just have to endure without my brilliantly original thoughts on Terri Schiavo, the Pope, Sandy Berger, et al. I've got an Instalanche of hormones pumping through the site meter of my circulatory system, and that's all my server can handle right now.