Here we are: the night before going back to California, and I am officially so fucking tired of packing and unpacking my bags.
Yes, I went to California twice during my stay in Vegas because of the baby shower and everything surrounding it. But now that it’s actually time to go back and stay there, I’m not excited.
I’m not even going to pretend.
I don’t want to go back.
And I know that probably sounds selfish. Maybe it is. But life and marriage require sacrifices, and I understand that. I’ve made plenty of them.
But lately I keep asking myself:
When is it my turn to be selfish?
When do I get to say no?
When do I get to say, “Actually, I don’t want to do this”?
When do I get to be the one who doesn’t roll over, adjust, pack her bags, and do whatever needs to be done for the family?
Because right now, I’m stressed as hell.
I’m trying to find the bright side of this whole situation, and I genuinely can’t find it.
Yes, I’ll get to see my friends again. I’m happy about that. But just like being in Vegas, I won’t have a car and I won’t have an income.
So I’ll basically be stuck in the house.
Except this time, I won’t be stuck in the house with my parents.
I’ll be a stranger in someone else’s house.
And before anyone thinks I’m being ungrateful: I am grateful. I really am. I appreciate Hector’s parents letting me stay with them, especially because they absolutely do not have to.
But I’m also not going to lie and pretend this is some fun little family sleepover where everyone is thrilled about the arrangement.
It’s awkward.
It’s uncomfortable.
And I’m pretty sure it’s going to be uncomfortable for everyone.
I’m going to be wondering where I should sit. If I’m in the way. If I’m being a burden. If I should be doing something. If I’m making myself too comfortable. If I’m not comfortable enough.
Basically, my brain is preparing to turn “staying at my in-laws’ house” into a full-time anxiety internship.
And then, because apparently I needed another thing to worry about, there’s the pregnancy anxiety.
I’m trying not to stress myself out so much that I convince myself I’m going to send this baby into the world early.
I know I can’t control when she decides to show up. She clearly has her own schedule and, based on everything else about pregnancy, probably does not care about mine.
But I would really prefer that she waits.
Especially because, apparently, the insurance through Hector’s job hasn’t kicked in yet.
So if I go into labor early, I’ll have to go to the hospital with the 1.9-star review I mentioned before.
Which is honestly hilarious in the worst possible way.
Because apparently my biggest pregnancy fear isn’t just “What if I go into labor early?”
It’s also:
“What if I go into labor early AND have to give birth somewhere people apparently hate?”
Fantastic.
So here I am on my last night in Vegas, surrounded by bags that have been packed, unpacked, repacked, and questioned more times than I care to admit, trying to convince myself that everything is going to be okay.
Maybe once I’m there, things will feel different.
Maybe I’ll find a routine.
Maybe seeing my friends will make it better.
Maybe I’ll adjust.
Maybe I’ll surprise myself.
I hope I do.
But tonight?
I don’t want to go.
And I think I’m allowed to say that.
I can be grateful that Hector’s parents are giving me somewhere to stay and still hate the circumstances that put me there.
I can love my husband and be pissed that once again, I’m the one having to adjust.
I can understand that this is what we need to do right now and still wish I didn’t have to do it.
Because I’m tired.
I’m tired of packing.
I’m tired of being in limbo.
I’m tired of not having my own space.
And honestly?
I’m tired of always feeling like I’m the one who has to make the sacrifice because it’s what’s best for everyone else.
I’m doing what I need to do for my family.
But damn.
When does somebody get to take care of me, too?
