At Seven Months I Lose It

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.  Actually, maybe it was just the worst of times.  The last few weeks have been a roller coaster ride of busy with a capital 'B' at our abode and in the last few days I began to crack.  Scary, large, saucer-eyes would appear in my skull as my jaw and fists would simultaneously clench.  My body was tired. It hurt and I felt like I had nothing left in me about an hour after waking.  By Wednesday afternoon I found myself sobbing randomly and it just continued.

People tell me the third kid breaks you, but I just can't wait for the relief that will come at the end of this pregnancy.  What?  Don't look at me like I don't know what I am talking about, I know it will be a challenge having a third child.  However, at least I won't be carrying that giant orb of weight that makes me nauseous, achy and full of pains that make it almost impossible to go up stairs by 10 a.m. and/or pick up either of the other two kids. Housework is a thing of the past.  I need that sort of strength back to power through and it's hard not having it.  I'll be physically capable of doing things once this kid is born and I can have a drink at the end of the day to make it all a bit softer around the edges. 

Yesterday was a day that broke me and I can safely say that if I hadn't been seven months pregnant it would not have been nearly so bad.  I would have had the energy physically to deal with all of this in a much better mind set.

Up at 6:30, neither TD or I are ready to start the day but The Comedian is all systems go as she beats down her door with fists of fury. 

A series of yells and rants, spilled milk and bowls lobbed at my head are what constitutes breakfast.  I forget to make coffee.

A diaper leaks.

I hear the now familiar bang of the toilet upstairs as I realize The Comedian has begun her new game of swishing her hands in the toilet water and wiping her face.  I lumber upstairs to clean up her and the wet mess.

Before my doctor's appointment I enlist TD into moving her nightstand and bookcase with all its books and toys out of her room before the bunk beds are delivered later in the day.  It's not a precise maneuver but it works and by the time the sitter arrives I am ready for my appointment. 

Wait, must scrub snot off TD's walls before new furniture is installed.  Anyone have a putty knife?  Kids are gross.

Realize there is the after effects of the snake bite medication smeared on the carpet in her room as well.  The dog has assed all over the house since coming home and I'm about to lose my mind from cleaning up yet another mess.

At doctor appointment I'm told, "Hey! Guess what! Your thyroid is low.  Time to do another test!"  Kick ass.  My iron is low too.  Did you know that basically all your levels are low but "Cheers!" your glucose is fine.  The midwife tells me that I need to spend an hour in the morning on my left side resting and another hour in the afternoon doing the same thing.  I almost go into hysterics laughing at how ridiculous she sounds as I tell her about the ages of the other two kids and school no longer being in session.  She tells me I may need to "lock my 18 month-old out of the room" to rest this way.  I note that surely she is half-joking and that she doesn't have kids. 

Weep in car from exhaustion and hope to God that H made it on his morning flight home.  Shake fist in air like Scarlett O'Hara making a dirt field oath.

Home again, I relieve the sitter and am grateful the kids have just finished lunch.  I begin to make my own when the furniture arrives.  This occurs at the same instance that I hear the toilet slamming again from the downstairs bathroom. The Comedian is at it again.  This time toilet paper is draped around the room.  Sigh.  Must. Buy. Toilet. Clamps.

While the furniture guys question me about set-up and other pertinent things the following things happen in under thirty minutes. 
     -The Comedian finds a marker.  She writes on walls, floors and windows.  TD yells, "MOM! The Comedian has your water!!!"  I run back downstairs to find the kid drinking orange water.  Funny, I didn't have Tang to drink....WAIT.  She's dipped an orange marker in the cup and is now drinking/pouring it down her shirt front, the table, chair and floor.  Yippie!
     -TD yells to me, "MOM! The Comedian has a piece of pizza!"  Great, the kid got my lunch.  But on closer inspection I see that is not the case.  As I bypass the kid on the stairs, removing the mashed pizza from her fists as she trails it up the staircase in a smearing mess I realize my plate is still on the counter. Huh.  However, the trash can in the kitchen has been emptied and that is where the pizza comes from. But, of course.
     -TD yells,  "MOM! The Comedian has a brownie!!!"  WHAT THE FUCK? I mean seriously?  I am still cleaning up the staircase, moving out of the furniture guys way and trying to keep The Comedian busy with toys. SHE WAS JUST HERE!  A BROWNIE?  I silently walk to the kitchen to find an open bag of brownies on the counter.  There is a child's step stool directly underneath.  I call to TD and ask how in the world this has occurred since the brownies were on a high shelf.  She's helped herself and didn't clean up.  Brownie bits litter the floor and I see that The Comedian is feeding Lex a nice portion of brownie.  I inwardly think, "If that fucking dog dies from chocolate poisoning after surviving a snake bite last week and costing us a grand in medical bills I will be so pissed!"  I grab at brownie bits on the floor and throw the dog back outside where she was until just moments ago.  Who let her in?  I can only imagine. 

The furniture guys leave.  I survey the room and move all dangerous objects, screw bits and plastic bag aka  inhalants from the floors.  As I am sliding a box spring out of the hallway into another room I once again hear, "MOM! The Comedian is up the ladder!"  Of course she is.  I walk into TD's room to find this precious 18 mos. old climbing the bunk bed ladder that has been placed against a door.  Not the beds. 

I am done. I am so done.  It's only 2 p.m.  I collapse in a chair and weep.  TD hugs me and it makes me cry harder.  I want my old self back.  I want energy and freedom to move the way I need to and not feel like I'm as slow as molasses in January or that each time I lift The Comedian my insides will pop out.  This better be the worst day we have until this new kid arrives.  I wish for a glass of wine and dry my eyes.  It's almost nap time. 
I feel like the worst mother in the world.

My Terrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

You put on the dress, ripping off the tags and feel brand new. Your heels click importantly as you wheel your suitcase out to the car and you breathe a sigh of relief. Aaah, I feel ready to work and professional.

Then you stop for gas before getting on the road and your GPS feels cranky. It clearly isn't feeling professional today and doesn't want to play either.  After twenty minutes of fiddling with it, cursing at it, downloading apps to your phone and calling your spouse you have directions.  You are now late.  The feelings of professionalism begin to recede as anxiety carves a pit into your stomach.  You glance at the clock and think, "There is still time. I'm fine." 

You coast down the highway in your new car, getting used to its feel and briefly accelerate too hard.  Realizing the errors of your ways you slow down.  Too late. A cop flashes his lights and you are pulled over. More time is sucked away and you try not to scream at him as you tell him that you just got the car last night and it's a real step up from a '98 Corolla.  Being blond, pregnant and female does nothing for you. Neither does the "I have to pee!" excuse.  He, like the GPS, doesn't feel like playing.  At least you got out of a criminal offense and just got a ticket. Cringing, heart beating fast you grip the steering wheel and head back onto the highway.  You finally make it to the city you need to be in, but not your destination.  The minutes are flying by and instead of being there an hour early you will barely be on time.  IF everything from here on out goes smoothly. 

Oh look! A sign up ahead for a toll.  Funny, I don't see a toll.  Just a parking lot and parts of downtown.  Right. That parking lot attendants booth was not a parking lot attendant booth. It was in fact the toll and you just drove right through it.  GAH!  Breathe. Just breathe. Flames will not shoot out the sides of your head or come billowing off your face.  So what that part of your paycheck will go towards fees and fines now.  At least you have a job.  Right?  Right.  If you can get there on time. 

Up ahead at the light you are ready to cross the bridge to your final destination.  WHY IN THE WORLD ARE THERE ROAD BLOCK SIGNS?!  WHY IN GOD'S NAME IS THIS HAPPENING?  You check to see if your blue dress has suddenly turned into a yellow shirt with a black zig zag pattern.  Nope. Good grief.  It's not even ten a.m.!  Pulling over you call your work and they direct you to the site.  You have made it.  You feel sweaty, nervous and totally freaked out.  What more could happen today to make this day complete?  You don't even want to know. 

Later, when the work day is complete. All you want to do is head to the hotel and get something to eat.  Here's what else can happen.  You spend an hour with a dead GPS looking for your hotel, not even finding a gas station to stop at to ask for directions.  Your phone dies half way through this ordeal.  So much for those downloaded apps.  Finally, you miraculously find the hotel.  Alone. Not a soul or restaurant in miles to be found.  You set your suitcase down, chug some water and are relieved the day is done.  Tomorrow WILL be better.  It has to be.