hyper-active

So, this is baby number three for me. 

And my first two pregnancies had their fair share of complications. 

...okay, that may be understating things. Especially in Avery's case.

Oh, okay. With Carter, too.

But this pregnancy has been going really well! 

...until now.

A couple of weeks ago, I started having blurred-vision headaches and incredible swelling limbs.

Blood pressure spikes. 

My doctor officially declared me sick with Pregnancy-induced Hypertension. 

You can call it Toxemia. 

I call it The Worst.

Times three.

They sent me to the lab. And then the hospital for monitoring when my headache wasn't going away. Everything seems to be fine. But now I play the waiting game. Now I have to rest. 

"Rest" should sound really awesome! Seriously. What thirty-three-weeks-pregnant-with-two-other-little-kids-running-around-stay-at-home-mom doesn't want more rest?! 

But when "rest" means things like feeling like garbage and accepting neighbors and ward member's help with kids and meals and vacuuming (embarrassing!!!) and the like, it really stinks. 

 My very sweet Relief Society President told me this week in no uncertain terms that she understands that accepting help is hard but, "If you don't let people serve you, you're the jerk."

 At least I'm pretty sure she said jerk. 

Either way, that was the gist of the message. 

And she's not the only one who gave me that message this week.

And everyone is right, of course. I love being able to help other people! I guess everyone has to take their own turn being helped.

But I don't have to be happy about it. 

Seriously, you can't make me.

Blegh.

When "rest" means taking total advantage of my brother on his days off, well, that stinks. He's such a good guy. When my mom called him on Wednesday night and found out I was in the hospital, I got a very concerned phone call. The call the next day, too, was concerned and so sweet. And this is how it ended: "Okay, honey, you promise to take it easy, okay? And I really will come up there if you need me- just let me know. Oh, and don't let me find out that you are in the hospital from your brother again. That really pissed me off. (Dead. Serious.) haha Okay! Love you! Bye-bye!!!" 

hahahaha I love my Mama. 

Also, I have the best neighbors money can buy.

You know who you are. 

I already knew that you were the best. I think this week you were just showing off.

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for being awesome.

When "rest" also means spending lots of time worrying about little Butter Boots' health and safety...

 well, that's Officially The Worst.

 

And so, I will rest. And go in for weekly doctor's appointments. And leave my work to others. And take advantage of everyone I know. And try to finish my final weeks of college from a reclined position. And give my girls extra hugs and my dog-tired husband extra love and my worried mother extra reassurance. And measure my BP with a little robot wrist-cuff thing that sounds like a chainsaw while it squeezes my arm and then flashes and beeps at me and tells me what I already know:

 Things aren't looking so hot. Take it easy and you'll make it through. Only six more weeks. For Baby. For chubby baby rolls. For no NICU this time around. For coming home with baby sans oxygen machine. For you. For not having a Magnesium Sulfate (known in most countries as the DEVIL) IV this time. For less time in the hospital and tubes and monitors and visits and needles and medicines and stress.