My Life As A Veal Calf

As I lie here with my retro-styled (Developed for astronauts! As seen on TV!) Flowtron leg massagers, sensing my ass turning into something akin to aspic, I think I know what veal calves must feel like. I am being prepped for slaughter. Sitting upright is discouraged in this battle of wills to keep Frankie inside my belly.

However, Dave and I have both decided that it isn’t right for me to complain after finding out yesterday that there is a woman on our floor who is at 22 weeks and has to sit with her head and body below the level of her legs, so that what remains of her fluid stays inside -- plus she has to eat hospital food. We have parents running around grocery shopping for organic chicken and vegetables and nightly visits from our very own dessert fairy, Kristin. At any rate, we figure we have years of good guilt inducing labor stories for Frankie. “Oh? You want a larger allowance? Well, as soon as you pay us back for your Mom’s three week hospital stay when you were born, we’ll get right on that.” “Oh sure – ride your bike off that ramp and get hurt – after all we went through to have you!” The possibilities are endless.

Certainly one of the most important things this experience has taught me besides the fact that “bed rest” might sound fun and relaxing but really is not at all, is that I spent way too much time being upset by little things before. A sense of renewed perspective has overtaken my worries and concerns from before. Yes, I will still get pissed off about animal cruelty and the lack of healthcare in the US, but less so if someone is just being an asshole to me or I discover that someone has written something derogatory about me in a local bathroom (true story!).

It sounds squishy and sentimental but we feel very encouraged knowing everyone is rooting for us and Frankie. Finally! A sport I can get behind! We appreciate the cheers and the waving of the collective pointy foam finger on our behalf.