So far the controlled anxiety experiments I've been undertaking have been interesting to say the least. They lack the intense immediacy of anxiety attacks that hit randomly. It takes some time sitting and thinking and deliberately working myself up. Yesterday it didn't work very well. I got upset, but it wasn't the face-to-the-floor soul wrenching experience of my usual attacks. I'm not really sure how I feel about it, to tell the truth. Sometimes it does feel better to get out a good cry and look at scenarios in my head, but in the end it doesn't seem to do much difference - help or hindrance. I guess that's an improvement, because a true anxiety attack will leave me drained and miserable for the rest of the day.
The idea that we'll be 33 weeks along this week is somewhat terrifying but mostly just really exciting to me. I told myself I'd wait until 34 weeks to pack the hospital bag, and holy shit that's next week. In a month, we'll be officially full term. In 6 weeks, I'll be readying for my induction. What? No, I'm not sitting here thinking of new and exciting reasons to ramp my anxiety up. Shut up, Amanda.
I also went through last night looking at old pictures from over a year ago. Almost two years ago, we were moving into our new place, and I was watching two siblings and another infant. When Matt was home, he'd engage with the kids, playing games with them or letting them watch while he gamed, reading to them, talking to them, and I remember taking some pictures thinking that it would be so amazing if one day I could take pictures of him with our children. Finding some of these shots in a folder last night made me cry, of course. Happy tears though. But everything makes me cry. I'm going to blame the hormones, and silently apologize to my mother for making fun of her every time she cried at sappy parent/child feels in a movie.
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He's going to be a great dad, as long as he doesn't let Lorelai go Alliance.
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