Doctor prescribed pool-side relaxation

Hello! I have missed you all. You look lovely, by the way. Is that a new shirt? I can’t remember where things were at when we last chatted, but I’m pretty sure I was asking for book recommendations for Cuba. Which no one provided me with, but I will let it slide, because I managed to find plenty to read on my own. Cuba was lovely, with the exception of 48-hours of barfing (since apparently pregnant women are more susceptible to the kinds of food-borne illnesses you can catch while on a tropical vacation). However, the lovely Cuban doctor, who did not seem at all bothered by the pale, greenish Canadian woman weeping in his office, was a little concerned by my blood pressure and wasn’t swayed by my poor attempts to communicate that my blood pressure has been fine thus far this pregnancy, that I understand the risks, and that it was just high at that moment because of stress and misery, and instructed me in a stern voice that it was very important — both for the baby and I — that I relax, so we spent the rest of the week moving between the pool and the beach, and it ended up being quite a rejuvenating vacation. Incidentally, it cost us about as much on a per-dollar basis to see the doctor as it did to make a long-distance phone call home on Mother’s Day, so I suppose that is one point in favour of communism, although I am fairly certain (based on my rudimentary understanding of Spanish) that what the doctor wrote on our form was that I was suffering from an “upset stomach” so I expect we will not be likely to be able to claim it on our out-of-country insurance, or at least not as likely as we would be had he written down what I was actually suffering from (misery and imminent death).

I am feeling kind of tired and grumpy today because I was awake for two hours in the middle of the night because of what is becoming a regular occurrence, our neighbours a few houses down and across the street having some sort of loud gathering in their garage. I am really not sure what to do about this. I have contemplated having a polite conversation with them about the issue, but I have a very strong feeling that the sort of people that would regularly disrupt a quiet street in a quiet town with their partying ways are NOT the same sort of people who would respond to that confrontation with, “Oh, you are RIGHT. How inconsiderate of us! I’m so sorry. It won’t happen again. By the way, your hair looks nice.” I spent my awake time last night trying to mentally draft a note to leave anonymously on their door, but the nicest version I could come up with basically said, “You are terrible members of our community and no one wants to hear your stupid music” so perhaps I need to work on a second draft.

And speaking of emotional instability, I went shopping the other day at a Carter’s store because Ellie needs new pajamas, and I was thinking I would buy a little something for the new baby, who it turns out is a boy. (A boy! Mike and I are in discussions about names, because while we had a girl name all picked out, a boy name we can both agree on still eludes us.) As I was browsing around, a country song came over the speaker system in the store, and I can’t remember any of the lyrics of the song or what it was called, but the gist of it was a man was encouraging his wife not to rush things, not to rush their marriage or a pregnancy or the babyhood of their kids, because someday she was desperately going to want that time back. So anyway, my point is last week I cried in a children’s clothing store, dabbing at my tears with a tiny blue sleeper embroidered with little orange crabs. Perhaps I need to go back to the beach.