There was a room at my old office called the health room, which I thought should have been called the rest room. It had a bed in it. I went there once after a painful procedure that shouldn't have been painful, and I had to leave when I thought I was in danger of falling asleep and staying there all day.
From Sunday noon to Monday noon, I was on strict bedrest. I was allowed to walk from the car to my lying-down place, park myself, and not get up except to go to the bathroom. (Restroom). While I was on the bed, I could be in a seated position as long as my legs were stretched out in front of me. Otherwise I was to remain reclined. I'm not lying.
Those of you who know me know that I am an excellent sleeper. I am neither a night person nor a morning person. I am a mid-afternoon person. I go to sleep early and get 9 to 10 hours of sleep per night. If I don't get at least nine, my wrists hurt the next day. So you might think that I'd do well with bedrest.
But I am also a free spirit, and I do not like confinement or captivity. I have a mild mania for doing productive, creative activites. But I'm not supposed to do them. Even now that the strict bedrest period has been lifted, I am under husbandly orders to lie around. Don't tell James I've written a blog post, for example. When I told him I felt guilty because I hadn't done XYZ charitable mind- and computer-related work, he told me tough. My job, my raison-d'etre, was cooking buns. I can sit still for a week if that's what it takes. These buns are expensive (I added that; "expensive" was always the motivating factor from my childhood). And when it comes down to it, I suppose this is the essence of productivity and creativity. If it works.
Now I consider myself on couch rest. That means I must spend most of my time on the couch. I do not have to recline, but we all know that's really the only way to be on a couch anyway. I am allowed to go to the kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, and even the office (picture me here). I put in a new kitchen trash bag but didn't take out the full bag of trash. I can get dishes dirty, but I can't wash them. I am at half-capacity. And that is about all I have to give. Whenever I walk up and down the stairs, my arms get so tired they want to fall off. Blood pulses in my ears. It's the progesterone. It makes me worthless. So I'm going to try to accept the physical worthlessness as I put all my energy into my uterus. Worthfulness.
When the babies come out, they will know a lot about home and garden TV. So excuse me as I must get back to the couch.