Yesterday, I hit a little wall of self-pity when I was taking out the compost. I tripped over, twisted my ankle and landed in a pile of soggy weet-bix, coffee grounds and carrot peelings. I cried.
Either I have angered some gods, I thought, or generally my fornicating, atheist godlessness has finally caused the big J to strike down some wrath upon us. We've been sort of sliding along on a big banana peel of life around here.
I'm waiting on results to see if I have whooping cough, or just the tail end of some evil chesty disease that has pitted Keith and I against each other in late-night duelling coughing fits. I'm doing much better actually, which is good, because Keith has slid further and further over the last week into the land of Death Flu. Yesterday he went to the doc who diagnosed him with asthmatic bronchitis and dosed him up on antibiotics. He's hardly been out of bed for a week.
My pelvis has become increasingly painful and I am waddling like a duck. I thought it was related to the coughing but I finally took it to the doc, who says I have pubis symphosis dysfunction, a pregnancy disorder with in my opinion an unnecessarily insulting name. Keith and I are calling the problem Elvis in an attempt to lighten the tragedy.
We bought a new car. It has broken down twice so far.
Daily, gifts of food and love arrive from the womenfolk who surround me in the lovely town I live in. Today, one minded Ted while Ivy had an extra day at pre-school. I went back to bed and snored for two hours while Keith wheezed and snuffled and tapped away at his spreadsheets.
Meanwhile, Plum kicks with joy and grows quietly away amidst the chaos. Ivy and Ted continue to be great companions. Teddy has been having nightmares that his bed is swimming away, and fallen in love with the idea of rainbows. Last night at dinner he said wistfully 'I wish a rainbow poo would come out of my bum, Mummy.' Ivy, meanwhile, has taken to patting me and asking 'How are your legs?' She's sweet.
We are blessed.
And yet, cursed.