Author Archives: Crystal

Lather, Rinse, Repeat

I don’t know if I mentioned to you, internet, that we finally got Baby L sleeping through the night. Alone. In her own room. It happened about two weeks ago, while MB wasn’t working and we were no longer willing to wake up 35 times per night to tend to one of the kids (Baby O is not really a problem but between the two of them, it was a little ridiculous). It started out pretty rocky. She hated me. She hated MB. And she cried like she was being murdered. But within two days of us being seriously adamant about her sleeping in her bed, she accepted her fate. She would sleep from 8 pm until around 6 am, usually waking once or twice, at most, and then NOT being a total asshole when we kissed her little forehead and laid her down again.

And that lasted TEN DAYS.

And then she became some sort of mutant baby. She went right back to screaming her head off, sometimes refusing FOR HOURS to nap and waking in the middle of the night and playing the “PUT ME IN YOUR BED” game for at least an hour until one of us gave in for the sake of our eardrums and our sanity, and let her sleep in our room. And two days ago, I almost ran away from home. To some place where no one interrupts your sleep.

With the schedule that MB is currently working, my day is starting earlier in order to be able to get the kids changed, fed and happy. You know, simultaneously. And with enough precision that no one is screaming first thing in the morning. For the most part, I am successful. But only if I time things perfectly. I spend all day just trying to keep the house in the same state it was in when I woke up. That state, you ask? Total disarray. But no more disarray at the end of the day than when I woke up. Because if it were any worse, I would feel like a complete failure. I follow Baby L around, cleaning up the remnants of the mini-tornado that she is, only to have another one created on the other side of the room as I do so. I diaper, feed, chase, rock, diaper, feed, rock, chase, clean, panic. Lather, rinse, repeat. All day. And then I bathe babies. And then I attempt a bedtime routine with Baby L as quickly as possible while Baby O is in his swing. HOPEFULLY resting quietly. Usually NOT. Because if there is ONE time of the day when Baby O is loud and pissed, it is when it is Baby L’s bath/bedtime. Once the fight about the lotioning and the tooth brushing is over, I put Baby L to bed. And usually, this isn’t so bad. Until that 3 am wake up call, which usually is as high-pitched and annoying as a pterodactyl, when I am ripped out of a semi-decent sleep (which is usually taking place on the couch) to calm her and start the process of getting her to sleep all over again. ALL OVER AGAIN.

I usually fail miserably at this.

And then I dump her into the bed with MB because I can’t take any more. And then Baby O wakes up. And I change him. And then I feed him. And then I put HIM back to sleep. And then, if I am lucky, I can sleep for another hour before MB wakes up and leaves for work. Again. Abandoning me with angry, demanding little people who are out for blood. The blood of Mommy.

I’m not complaining, internet. Well, maybe a little. But mostly just because it is really hard NOT to complain when you haven’t slept in your bed in weeks and you can’t remember if you brushed your teeth this morning. Come to think of it, you can’t remember if you brushed your teeth last night either. And when it is hard to tell if your husband is at work…or if he has moved out…

I really still do love being home with the kids. Because, even though they can be monsters, they are MY monsters and I MADE them. And they are beautiful and funny and seriously entertaining and I love them to pieces.

I just wish they came with pause buttons. Or, I like, I could put them on vibrate.

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Life Suckage

Since before I had Baby O, MB has been looking for a new job. One where he wasn’t working so hard that he was too sore/tired/dirty to hold the kids when he got home. One that paid a little more and would afford us the luxury of THE ZOO or THE MUSEUM on weekends. Not that we couldn’t do these things before, but recently, after his job didn’t pay him what they were supposed to for being home after the birth of our son, we were playing catch up. Like CRAZY. And it was too much. MB found another job, put in his notice, and then his previous employer of 5 years let him go. So, we had another two weeks of ZERO income. Which, by the way, was AWESOME. So, my stress level was off the charts. And for me, that could really just mean that its Tuesday, but…you know. Two weeks of CODE RED stress makes mommy a little…well…crazy-pants.

So, anyway, MB started his new job last Wednesday. They told him in the interview that he would be working about 60-70 hours per week. Obviously, this was a little disheartening, but also totally do-able. And the money was a pretty good motivation because he would be making about double what he was previously making for a lot less BS/injury. And we were excited. In fact, I was ELATED. I thought about these zoo trips and museum trips and weekends in Savannah, strolling around and eating delicious southern food on River Street. And then he went to work. And he was there, on his first day, for 15 hours. And day two wasn’t much better. And so on. And so on. And when they told him that, not only would he have to work 6 days per week, but he would have to work one Sunday a month, my heart sank a little (read: I envisioned myself stabbing his boss in the eye with my kitchen scissors) and all my zoo fantasies faded. So, today marks 7 straight days of MB working 15 hour days and leaving me home with the kids all day. Alone.

The kids take turns sleeping so that there is zero time for me to actually accomplish any sort of household duty for more than 30 seconds without being interrupted to change a diaper or administer a bottle or retrieve Baby L’s hand out of the trash can or stop her from trying to scale the kitchen counter. There are dishes in the sink ALL. THE. TIME. Because we are stupid and moved into a house that doesn’t have a dishwasher and there seems to be an endless consumption of food in this house for some reason. I’ve had to resort to letting Baby L watch two, back-to-back episodes of “Yo Gabba Gabba” at times, (despite feeling that if she is going to watch TV at all, it should be VERY infrequently) just so that I can pee without a toddler trying to climb into my lap. I have to shower at 5am or 10pm since the kids refuse to overlap their naps so that I can do so during the day. And showering may sound like no big deal, but it is the one thing that, I think would make me feel human. Besides coffee. And wine. But, sadly, I can’t drink wine all day or I would probably try to put mascara on the babies or something equally ridiculous.

I have been exhausted. Surprisingly calm, however. I braced myself for long days and even though I didn’t expect them to be quite THIS long, I have managed to pull of bathtimes and bedtimes and night wakings with an amount of grace that is really shocking to me. Because I, my friends, am a crazy person. And calmness doesn’t come so easily. I am just not sure how long we can go on like this. MB hasn’t spent any time at all with the kids in a week and it is obvious to me that Baby L is really missing him. Her mood is different and she seems to be waiting for him. And it breaks my heart. And it breaks HIS heart. And that breaks my heart more. MORE! So, we are sucking it up, as they say, for the time being. You know, until I find a high paying, work from home job that wants to enlist me to write snarky things about being a parent. Or about celebrities who piss me off. Or…you know…whatever.

I just know that this 90+ hours per week business is not going to fly for long or MB will miss every new wonderfully amazing thing that Baby O does for the first time. And before we know it, Baby L will be reading “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance” and going off to college and MB will have missed it all. So, the hunt begins again. Either for me, or for MB, to find a job that doesn’t suck the life out of us. Because the “life” part is the GOOD part.

Good to Know

I just wanted to stop in and say a GIANT THANK YOU to all of you who posted comments on my last post. I haven’t had a chance to respond to most of them but it means a lot to know that I am not the only one who goes through this (or similar stuff). I appreciate you guys! If I could, I would bake you all some brownies. Bacon brownies. Because THAT, my friends, is LOVE.

 

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On Being Me…(A Post About Anxiety)

I’ve told you guys before that I am a total basketcase. I am not ashamed of it. I have Generalized Anxiety Disorder that has been untreated for years since I decided that the medication that I was prescribed brought on…well…more crazy. I didn’t want to live my life dependent on some pill to keep me sane. I was pretty sure I could do it myself.

It all started on Christmas Eve (which was also the eve of my 23rd birthday) when my grandfather was rushed to the hospital by ambulance because my grandma and uncle thought he was having a stroke. He was 87 or something at the time, and had already had a couple of TIAs. By the time that I was told about any of that, however, my grandmother had been admitted also. To make a long story short, Grandpa was in perfect health but Grandma, while searching for their insurance information in her purse, lost the use of her left arm and ultimately was the one having a stroke. Bizarre. I know. And it was my birthday. And Christmas.

My grandparents lived with or near us for a good portion of my childhood. And, even in my early adulthood, they were the people I went to for EVERYTHING. My parents are great. My grandparents were saints. On my birthday, we turned off the machines. I held hands with my sister and my grandfather in the hospital I would later be employed at and, in my head, I sang, “Three little monkeys, jumping on the bed, one fell off and bumped his head…” because my grandma used to tell me how much I used to chant those words when I was small and how, after that, she wouldn’t even teach the other grandkids that song. She hated it. But telling the story always made her laugh that sweet laugh that made everyone else smile too. I thought that being annoying, even in my head, would stop me from throwing myself out the window of her room in the ICU. Because, losing her? Well, there’s never been anything worse than that.

That’s when the panic attacks started. They happened in the middle of the night. Out of a dead sleep, I would wake, struggling to breathe, sweating. They would happen when I couldn’t remember where I had parked my car at work. They would happen when my best friend didn’t return my phone call. I was falling apart.

I was put on Zoloft and Xanax by a doctor at the hospital where I worked. She didn’t ask any questions about what was happening in my life. In fact, she asked ZERO questions. I was in the office for less than five minutes. Prescriptions were written and I was excused. Zoloft made me feel like a lunatic and Xanax made me sleepy. So, I didn’t take them. I popped a Xanax only when I was mid-panic and I managed everything with…well…I didn’t. I drank a lot of beer because it mellowed me out. And my friends drank a lot of beer. So it just made sense. And a doctor I worked for did acupuncture on me on a weekly basis to calm me down. And it helped. A lot. But I never really dealt with the root of it all. But I managed.

Two weeks before my 30th birthday, my grandfather died. And so, there I was, back in the same place I had been 7 years before. I fell into a depression. It wasn’t long before the panic attacks returned. With a vengeance. I tried to see a therapist for grief counseling because, even though I have always been a little high strung, I knew that this had to have started there. With death. With loss. But my insurance was crap and I couldn’t afford to pay $50 per week to get my head straight. So I drank more wine. And I managed.

When I started dating my husband, he was so calm. And so ZEN. And so refreshing. And my anxiety was almost non-existent. Until I got pregnant with Baby L. And then I had a hard time finding the balls to leave the house. Why? I don’t know. I just didn’t want to see anyone. Or have conversations with people. I didn’t want to be noticed. I was so scared and felt so alone in my head. That’s when I started this blog. And, oh my god, internet. I can’t tell you the difference that this community of bloggers and readers has helped me just…maintain. But I feel myself slipping.

And not because I have two kids now. And not because my husband is no longer calm and comforting. But because now there are two people in the world who depend on me for everything. And I am terrified of failing. Or losing them. I find myself sanitizing like a madwoman. And avoiding public outings because we could get into a car accident. Or someone could take them. Or they could contract leprosy. I envy those women who can dive into motherhood with an almost carefree abandon about leaving the comfort of their homes and letting their kids experience things. It isn’t that I don’t do that stuff. I do, but it makes me physically ill to think about all of the things that could happen. It is paralyzing. Because anything COULD happen. And I can’t live in fear of EVERYTHING. Can I?

I am trying. Really trying, to learn how to just relax. And I feel It is imperative, at this point, to learn to deal with my fear of loss. To stop thinking so much about what could happen and focus on what IS happening. Because what IS happening is that my kids are growing. They are learning and laughing and becoming little people. And I am afraid to drive down the street for fear that I will miss all of it. When I could miss it just the same if I don’t just DRIVE.

It is a constant struggle. And this is a very personal issue for me. But I needed to talk about it. Because I know that I am not the only one. At least. I hope I’m not the only one.

 

Mourning the Lady Parts

There was really never any question, after I found out I was pregnant again, that Baby O would be our last child. I was never really sure I wanted to have kids until I had Baby L, so when a second was coming, I knew I was done. At my first OB/GYN appointment during this pregnancy, I was already asking about birth control for after Baby O was born. Because, you know, if you are keeping score, BOTH of my pregnancies were accidental and I was on the pill when I got pregnant this last time, so I was pretty sure the pill wasn’t going to prevent Captain Super Sperm from getting me knocked up again. But I wasn’t sold on the IUD method because I just didn’t want some weird object floating around in there. And I didn’t want something so invasive as a tubal ligation. (Mostly because I am a total wuss and, up until I had my kids, had had almost NO medical issues in my life. Seriously, I had an x-ray once.) But I wanted the permanence of a tubal ligation. You know, without the incision. Gross.

At my first OB/GYN appointment, there was a poster on the wall advertising Essure so I asked about it. Seriously? Permanent? Yes. In-Office procedure? Awesome. No incision? SOLD. So, I had decided at 14 weeks that I was getting this shit taken CARE of. With a QUICKNESS, you guys.

So, yesterday, I had my “counseling” appointment. Which basically means that I watched a video of women and doctors and some women doctors talk about their experiences with it and how awesome it is. And then I signed a consent form.  There is a waiting period of 30 days before I can have the procedure done. Because, you know, I might change my mind and decide I want another kid. (HA! If I ever say anything like that, internet, please remind me how long it has been since I have slept or eaten a meal while it was hot. Or while sitting.) So, now we wait.

What I didn’t expect was that I feel sort of like I am having to mourn the loss and/or use of my lady parts. I mean, first of all, I never really wanted to use them. And they are definitely USED at this point. And I don’t want to use them again. But it is sort of sad to think about. I never really thought about how much of a privilege it is to be ABLE to have children. Even if you don’t want them and don’t plan to have them, you have the POWER to create life. I mean, how amazing is that? I still don’t want to have another baby, you guys, it is just a crazy thought that I won’t be ABLE to.

I’m not going to change my mind. Because even if I did go absolutely batshit crazy and decide that more kids was a good idea, I wouldn’t do it. MB and I had our boy and our girl and we are absolutely elated to have completed our family and so QUICKLY! (This might have worked out for us. It seems doable. Hard, but we got this. In your FACE, universe!) Really, this is the only way to go. It is this or Captain Super Sperm over here will have to just stay away from me until I am all old and stuff. Because, I don’t even trust a vasectomy at this point. My husband is no joke.

An Open Letter to Baby O at 2 Months

Dear Oliver,

I am pretty sure you are an angel.

You were named after my grandfather who was brilliant, kind, loving, and soft-spoken. I never once, in the 30 years he was in my life, saw him angry. And, so far, my little guy, you are doing justice to your Great-Grandfather’s name. You are a quiet, content, lovable baby. You sleep well, you eat well and you love to be held, but are okay with just observing from your swing. I thought that parenting two little ones would be a lot harder than it actually turned out to be, but I think it is because I hit the baby jackpot when I got you. You are amazing.

Your sister is increasingly interested in you and is, more and more, wanting to see what you are doing. She likes to peek at you while you are napping and hold your hand while I am holding you. She stands next to me while I am feeding you and pats you. In fact, the first combination of words that she has ever made was, “Hi, Ollie!”, which both blew my mind and made me so happy and confident that our family is complete now that you have arrived. And, of course, I cried my face off. Because moms are crazy people. And, just a warning, this will continue through your entire life. Every little thing you do is bound to make me burst into tears. I don’t know if this will change. I mean, right now you are brand new and I am a ball of hormones. So maybe you will luck out and, by the time you read this, I won’t be a basketcase anymore. But don’t count on it. I love you and your sister so much that I can’t imagine not being a basketcase about everything that you do. You guys are pretty awesome.

You smile a lot. I can’t tell if it is just that you are gassy as hell or if you are actually smiling at us. I think it is a little too early for this milestone but am inclined to believe that you are a genius. Besides that, you don’t seem all that gassy when you’re grinning. You sort of seem like you know something that we don’t. Which is a little creepy sometimes. Like, I have toilet paper on my shoe. Or spinach in my teeth. Either way, it is super adorable.

In some ways, I can’t wait for you to be older so we can play and giggle and go to the zoo. You know, like, and you will actually know we are at the zoo…But in other ways, I want you to stay small and squishy forever. You are growing so fast that it is hard for me to take it all in. Having your sister made me realize how quickly time flies and how little time you have as such a little helpless meatloaf. And here you are, two months old in a few days, and it is all bittersweet.

For the time being, you are the cutest little guy I have ever seen. And I love every little thing you do and look forward to helping you discover all the new little things you learn to do. I love you so much, little man.

Love,

Mom

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Sleep or the Lack Thereof

So, Baby O is eight weeks old now. Yeah. I KNOW! I can’t believe he is 8 weeks old either! But its all true, you guys. All true.

So, he’s 8 weeks old and things are moving right along. He has stopped looking like an alien/old man like he did when he was born and now he looks like a little person. He has chubby cheeks and those little creases in his thighs to accentuate all that new chunk! He sleeps well at night. And I don’t have to be holding him which means that I can concentrate on getting Baby L sleeping in her crib and off of my head. Which hasn’t really happened ALL that much lately anyway, because I have been sleeping on the couch for the most part, to be close to Baby O without interrupting the rest of the family. But OMG, you guys, the chaos.

It is no secret that Baby L as been a hot mess in the sleep department since she was born. From birth, she has been difficult. She wants to be ON YOU.  Which was tolerable at 6 weeks. Or three months. Hell, I even could deal with it at 8 months. But it got a little bit out of control. She went, at 7 months, from sleeping all night in her crib (but having a little bit of a problem napping when she needed to), to needing to be in bed with me and MB. (I blame a trip to North Carolina to visit my Father-in-Law for this because he had us sleeping in a room that I am pretty sure had absolutely no insulation at all. In the middle of winter. With a baby. So, naturally, I had to cuddle up with her on our freezing cold air mattress for those three nights to avoid anyone freezing to death. It worked. But sleeping has never been the same.) I got pretty used to our nightly routine of MB bathing her and then putting her down in her room and then, a few hours later, having to try and put her back down after she wakes up, screaming her head off and standing in her crib. Usually, this occurred at about 1 or 2 in the morning, so in my very pregnant and exhausted state, I would usually just give up and bring her into our bedroom where she would sleep on my face for the remainder of the night. I grew used to it. And I sort of liked it. But with a newborn on the way, you guys, there was no effing way I was going to miss out on sleep because of all that newborn stuff and then have to deal with a toddler kicking me in the kidneys during the 4 minutes per night I am actually able to try and get some rest. No.

I had tried to let Baby L “Cry it Out” a few times. But I was terrible at it. Every time I tried to stomach the sound of her maniacal cries at naptime, I would break. I couldn’t stand it. And she would cry FOREVER. (Read: 10 minutes. Because that was all I could take.) But then, just weeks before my due date, I knew I would have to suck it up. And shockingly, it worked. I stood my ground and, within just a few very painful days, Baby L had accepted that she was powerless. Sleep was happening. And it was happening when and BECAUSE I said so. (Yes, I am officially the “because I said so” mom now.) And, by the time I was home from the hospital, Baby L was napping like an angel. But still waking up in the middle of the night and pleading for the return to her spot in the middle of our bed. (Which you know, if you have ever shared a bed with a toddler, means THE WHOLE BED, no matter the size of said bed. Toddlers are like cats in their innate ability to take up entire beds despite their size, for those of you who share a bed with a cat and not a toddler.)

Honestly, I was prepared to just leave well enough alone with the middle of the night stuff. If I weren’t too tired to deal with crying while I was pregnant, I was definitely too tired with a newborn. But two things happened: 1. I began having no choice but to sleep in the living room because Baby O being in our room meant that he would be waking Baby L several times throughout the night and getting HER back to sleep was much more difficult than getting HIM back to sleep and 2. She fell out of the bed one morning when I was feeding Baby O in the living room. We have a tall bed and hardwood floors. She was fine. I was not. (MB was sleeping beside her and had made a fort around her, as always, to prevent this sort of thing, but she is a walker now. So she sometimes stands up in bed and tries to walk around. I always wake up at her slightest movement. Because I am her mom. But dads can’t be trusted to do the same. No offense, dads, you just don’t have “that thing”.) So, needless to say, if I can’t be in two places at once, something was gonna have to give, you guys.

So three nights ago, I started to try to let her CIO at night. And OH. MY. GOD. I hate it. But, she has slept in her crib for three straight nights. And I have slept in bed with my husband and Baby O next to me in his sleeper. And things are starting to look up. You know, I still have to change 400 diapers per day. And the babies like to time their sleep/wake times perfectly so that the only time I actually get a second of peace is around 5 in the morning (which is when I started writing this post…) but Baby O is a good sleeper. And he doesn’t need me to hold him 24 hours per day. Which gives me time to give Baby L the attention she demands. Because that baby DEMANDS it.

And yes, I know I have been a bad blogger. But you might see why, after reading this post. Because everything I write is about sleep or the lack thereof. Because…well…that’s what happens. I promise to write something better. And soon. I think I’m gonna take up drunk blogging.

So,

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Lumpy

Baby O is 7 weeks old today. I seriously can’t believe how quickly time is going by! I mean, I can. Because it seems like just yesterday that Baby L was this small. But it also seems like AGES ago. A year makes a hell of a difference, that’s for sure. But daaaaamn. SEVEN WEEKS. In a couple of days, I will have my check-up and then I will be given the okay for “activities”. I imagine that this means that they will tell me it is okay to lift heavy objects. Or chase heavy objects around the house to prevent them from destroying all of my things and then swoop down and pick them up. You know, I will be given the okay to be Baby L’s mom.

I am sort of excited to be given the okay for exercise. Not that I will have time to do any of that. (Although, I am fairly certain that I do more of it now, with a 14 month old, than I ever have in my life…but they don’t call it exercise. They call that parenthood.) And, you know, I can’t think of any kind of exercise that I actually enjoy. (You know, the kind that I like is what got me these two kids in the first place. And we are trying to AVOID any more of those, people. AVOID.) I just am not sure I can learn to live with this new body.

I think I have said before that I, in no way, plan to give up big fat cheeseburgers or giant beers. Because if I did that, I just wouldn’t be me. But I would like to feel normal again.

After Baby L was born, I lost all but 5 pounds of the weight I gained in the first 2-3 weeks. And I fit back into my pre-preggo clothes almost immediately. (Please believe that I am not a thin girl to begin with. I was pleasantly plump when I got pregnant and I wasn’t terribly upset about it. I was pretty content with my curves because, for the most part, they were in pretty good places.) With Baby O, I lost the weight just as quickly. I gained less with this pregnancy than with my first one (27 pounds with Baby L and 21 with Baby O) and the poundage seemed to fall right off.

But the body, you guys. The body.

Okay, so lets be for real, ladies and gents. (Mostly ladies because I doubt that you boys can relate here. And if you can…well, damn. Awesome!) Your body goes batshit crazy for ten months when you are pregnant. And then you push a whole person out of your nether region. And then you are able to FEED them with your BOOBS. And your hips are bigger. And your hair falls out. And you cry at commercials. And your belly is like a bowl of Jell-O. A BOWL OF JELL-O.

I don’t want a Jell-O belly. I want the regular beer belly I used to have. And my clothes hate this new belly. My jeans want to push it out the top. My cute tops want to cling to it and make me feel all…lumpy. Feeling lumpy is not so much fun. And if you are feeling lumpy and are crying at commercials, well, you probably drink a lot of wine. (Which could contribute to lumpiness and crying.)

I went out for the first time in a long time on Saturday with some girlfriends. I was absolutely so nervous to even try on any of my clothes because I didn’t want to see how different/horrible all my cute clothes looked on me now. And, seriously, I considered canceling before I even tried anything on. Because, at least in yoga pants, I feel hidden. And comfortable. And reasonably frumpy. But I did it. I told all of my anxiety, “Shut the fuck up. I JUST had a BABY.” (Because that’s what my friends keep telling me when I talk about my Jell-O belly.) And I tried on EVERYTHING. And I hated EVERYTHING. And then I considered canceling again. Because the thought of hanging out with my lovely girlfriends who had their own bodies but no Jell-O bellies was just terrifying. I just knew that they would judge me. Because OBVIOUSLY my friends are assholes.

But they AREN’T assholes. And they are more forgiving than I am about the fact that I JUST had a BABY! Imagine that. A woman beating herself up about the way that she looks. And comparing herself to other women. With different kinds of bodies. And who didn’t just push a human of their vaginas. Weird.

And now I am angry with myself for being so self-conscious. Because HOLY SHIT, you guys. It has only been SEVEN WEEKS! And I was no Kate Moss before these kids, why do I expect to be now? WHY? And why would I WANT to be?

I read an article recently about how a woman’s dialogue to herself and about herself affects her daughter. And how girls pick up on the negativity that their mother’s put out there about the way they look. And I thought about Baby L and how I really want her to be confident. I don’t want her to look in the mirror and pick herself apart and never recognize how beautiful she is. And I’ve always been pretty confident, but I am definitely guilty about talking shit about the way that I look. And I don’t want that to shape my daughter into some self-conscious little shell of a person. And I don’t want her to seek approval from people for her physical appearance. I want her to be a proud, confident little lady. And I am staring in the mirror at my Jell-O belly and setting a bad example. And that stops now.

Dammit. I JUST had a BABY. And even if I hadn’t, I am a curvy broad. And curvy is hot.

I had to do it. This song makes me shake my curvy ass.

Hateful

Family is weird. And when you have one of your own, and your primary focus is your kids, some of the family dynamics with “outside the home” members of the family change. This is important to note because, this week, my Father-in-Law has been visiting.  He called, a couple of weeks ago, to wish MB a happy birthday and then informed him that he would be coming to our house for a week. No dates set-in-stone. Just a generic, “after the 19th” kind of notice.

I was not thrilled.

When you first have a baby, as many of you know, things change a lot. Your sleep changes. WHERE you sleep might change. Your meal times change. Even WHAT you eat changes because, if you are in a similar situation to mine, you don’t really have so much time to think about feeding your own face when you are spending so much of your time concerned about feeding tiny faces. Things are chaotic. They are unscheduled and they are completely unpredictable. And if you are anything like me, being in a situation like this would be enough to leave you bald and hiding under your bed in the fetal position by the end of a regular day. Because the anxiety. Oh, the anxiety. Its a heinous bitch. And it can turn ME into a heinous bitch too.

It takes any mother (parents, really) a minute to adjust to a newborn. And their neediness. And the lack of normacly. Because. Well. Welcome to your new normal, new parents. Gone are the days of free time. For us, gone are the days of dinners before 8pm or watching a television show uninterrupted. Or sleeping together in the same bed. Gone. At least for now. Because we’re still figuring this “parents of two” thing out. And we are doing damn well if you ask me.

But then, when you get an uninvited houseguest who sleeps on the couch in the middle of the day and cuts watermelon (and you HATE the smell/taste/idea of watermelon)  in your kitchen and leaves it sitting there for hours while you nearly vomit because of the smell (which you can do nothing about, because you are busy wrangling a 14 month old and feeding a newborn and cooking dinner and washing dishes and sweeping up today’s lunch from under the high chair…you get the point), you might tend to spin a little (more) out of control. You know, if you have control issues/a hefty anxiety problem. And that, my internet friends, has been this week for me. I’m tired and stressed and ready for a serious break. But I’m a parent. And breaks don’t exist.

My FIL isn’t a bad person, if you ask me, although, I know some people who would disagree. He has done some things that he regrets to the people that he loves and spends most of his time with them trying to make them understand that he loves them. But also making them feel guilty that HE lives several states away from them. Yes, you read that right. Because he moved away after being a not-so-great person to them and now wants all of them to feel guilty that they aren’t where he is. Sometimes, there is even crying. And I used to feel bad. But then I started getting to know him. And hearing stories about the kinds of things that happened when he was “not-so-good” and I don’t feel bad anymore. In fact, I am annoyed. But I bite my tongue because I love my husband. I have bitten my tongue so much this week that it is currently hanging by a little muscly tongue thread.

Last night, I was talking to my sister-in-law about being a parent. And I told her that, before I had Baby O, I was genuinely worried that I wouldn’t be able to love him as much as I love Baby L. This, I have heard from other moms with more than one child, is a very real fear. And very common. I mean, you give birth to someone, right? And they are your everything. They give you the motivation to be BETTER. And they expand your capacity for love and they fill up your WHOLE heart. Because that’s what happens when you have a child. And then you are faced with having another one. One that you haven’t met yet. And you wonder, “how will my heart expand enough for this new little one to fit in there with the first one?” Because it seems impossible to love ANOTHER person the way you love your first. But then you do. You just DO.

Anyway, I was talking to my SIL about this and FIL says with a snide roll of his eyes, “Well, that’s hateful.”

And, in my head, I said: “Well, I didn’t try and smother either of my kids with a pillow, did I? So, I guess you would know better than me about hateful.”

In real life, I said, “Well, I guess YOU wouldn’t understand, seeing as you’ve never carried a person in your BODY for months and months…”

“Well, I never had a problem loving my kids”, he says to me.

And in my head, I said, “Sure, if by loving your kids, you mean locking them outside and making them pick weeds in the hundred degree heat for hours on end.”

In real life, I said, “You couldn’t possibly understand any of it anyway.” And I walked out of the room.

MB and my SIL did back me up, because they GET it. It is a process. But I could have gone to prison last night, internet. PRISON.

I can show him hateful. I really can. I am REALLY good at hateful. I did it for years as a teenager. I got this. But I’m biting my tongue. Because he is leaving today. And after he is gone, my life can go back to a degree of chaos that doesn’t make it necessary for my husband to hide all the knives.

(Just FYI, I don’t know that the above things actually happened. I mean, I can only imagine that they did, because they were told to me BY his kids. But…I wasn’t there. I just thought I should say that.)