I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’ve forgotten all about you, haven’t you? I haven’t, though. Honest.
Last couple of weeks have been a smorgasbord of stuff that include dismantling an old bed to replace it with a new (as well as assembling new bedside tables, table lamps, wardrobe sorting and also the putting-together-of a new shoe cupboard thing) and an intense work schedule, so the time I usually blog with – my lunch hour, or sometimes pre-bedtime – has been AWOL. I also had a scheduled gynae procedure on Friday to help continue manage my Endometriosis, and that didn’t quite go as planned, so I’ve been in bed for two days on bedrest. I felt awful. Like: it’s amazing how quickly your body forgets real pain, but then it’s also amazing how quickly you remember it, too. The gentle rocking back and fore to distract. The hot water bottle. The careful breathing. The pain hit me like a truck. I’ve always thought I was good with pain – when I was experiencing my gallbladder flare-ups, my doctor said he’d never before seen someone so calm and coherent with a white cell count as high as mine – but I didn’t feel good on Friday. My doctor held my hand as I cried. I felt stupid.
I’ve been recuperating with Alan Partridge, Celebrity Big Brother (omg I wish I could stop watching it, too) and reading the Flowers in the Attics books, which is weird because I’ve never read them as an adult and find them horribly awkward. I don’t like Cathy. I don’t like Chris. I don’t like any of them, really.
We’re all okay, though. Work is too. Sometimes the stress of working two jobs gets a little much (particularly as my freelance work essentially requires a full-time commitment – I know, it’s weird) but it helps fund a couple of extra fun family days a month, as well as contribute to the cost of running GGS. Not much, but every little helps.
As I write this I’m propped up in a new bed with new bedding and I feel okay – actually, no, better than okay: I feel GOOD. We’re going out for dinner, I think – just the three of us.
I hope all the protected entries don’t frustrate you too much. I realised a long time ago that the only way I could go back to blogging – the only way I could go back to it and still present a real me leading my real life – was to shut down rants, complaints, anything that might hurt a family member, or hurt us financially, in a way that made me comfortable. They’re designed to keep some people out, but probably not you. If you need the passcode, just holler. I promise I won’t holler back.
Normal service will resume shortly. Pinkie Promise.