Feb
23
I mentioned that I borked up my back on Monday, right? The first day JB went back to work and I was alone with two small children in the house and about two hours into my morning I managed to render myself a complete invalid? I would tell you how much that sucked, except we definitely need a stronger word to better express the complete and utter thoroughness of the suckiness. It was like black-hole suckage. Dyson suction. Heidi-and-Spencer level sucktasticness. Worse than the initial C-section recovery, and of course I had run through all my good drugs, and I can tell you from experience that trying to get a refill on any decent — ie, abusable — pain medication is pretty much like asking for a brick of white China to be ferried to your house along with a bag of clean needles, which is to say your friendly neighborhood doctors would much rather suggest you use something else, like have you tried ibuprofen? (PS. SHOVE YOUR ADVIL UP YOUR CONSERVATIVE DOSE-HOLE, MEDICAL ESTABLISHMENT.)
My back is almost completely better now but I feel like I am going through my activities in a tentative, suspicious manner, because I’m so paranoid it’s going to give out again. It’s like the time my toilet suddenly and inexplicably clogged and then, oh my god, overflowed — once a previously benign, utilitarian object has betrayed you in such a dramatic and unpleasant manner, it can never truly be trusted again.
In other physical-annoyance news that is surely more information than you ever wanted to hear from me, I had a Mirena IUD put in during my C-section and although my OB gave me lots of information ahead of time on possible side effects she neglected to mention the strings. The strings attach to the IUD and, you know, are there so that the device may be painfully yoinked from your lady parts when the time comes — but no one told me they would be, uh, clear and present and accounted for after the birth. Like, not demurely hidden away and only there in some theoretical but not obvious manner, but rather rudely INTRUSIVE, or perhaps I should say EXTRUSIVE. Apparently the strings need to be trimmed, which is . . . well. Perhaps you can imagine just how fun that sounds. I mean, what can I say, I’m sort of shy about people with sharp scissors rooting around in my nether-regions.
However, I’m ready to allow an entire pit crew in there if that’s what it takes, because as my friend Sarah perfectly described these goddamned strings, they are hostile. You may be thinking of a nice cotton string or maybe a soft grosgrain ribbon but you would be WRONG. No, it’s more like the sort of industrial fishing tackle you’d use to catch a 100-lb marlin, and I won’t get into any (further) details but I’ll just say this: AIIIEEEEE.
Well. Am I a sparkling conversationalist today or what? Good lord. Quick subject change: JB is off diving this morning, which as far as I’m concerned means I get the afternoon to do whatever in hell I want. Would you escape the house and children in order to go out and do something for yourself — buy some shoes or some shit — or would you take, like, a 4-hour nap?
Feb
21
From about 9 AM until 2 PM, I am often feeling utterly overwhelmed and strung out and filled with shameful second thoughts and portents of doom over this whole new-baby thing. Those are the hours during which Dylan does not seem to nap at all, but instead spends his time fussing angrily, eating nonstop, and fussing some more. I am embarrassed to admit I have already asked my 2-week-old just what in the blue FUCK his problem is, and as long as I’m being brutally honest I’ll tell you I didn’t exactly ask this in a soft and gentle whisper.
I feel very very whiny about the current state of things, frankly. I feel like doing some of my own fussing, just lying in the corner of the room emoting over the fact that a 8-lb nuclear bomb has been dropped into the middle of my existence. I don’t know how to say this or explain it without sounding horrible, but maybe some of you can understand: I have learned that it’s possible to simultaneously love someone with all of your heart and know without a doubt that he was meant to be a part of your life, and also sometimes regret the decision to invite him to the party, so to speak.
I knew things were going to be hard, but perhaps not surprisingly it doesn’t actually make things LESS hard to have the heads up in advance. I am struggling, struggling with finding patience and dealing with the soul-crushing boredom and the endlessly unrewarding effort it takes to care for a newborn. Maybe I’ve gotten so used to Riley, a walking, talking, interactive creature, that returning to the primal state of eat-poop-fuss-sleep is harder for me to handle this time around. Maybe I’ve come to relish my tiny amounts of free time so very much that having them unceremoniously ripped away is a bigger challenge than I could have predicted. Maybe Dylan’s more of a pain in the ass than his brother was.
I don’t know. I do know things will get better, and I know I love both my boys and I am so lucky to have them. But still. STILL. This is still rough going, no matter how you cut it.
In less whimpery news:
1) That all-morning fuss routine Dylan’s in could certainly be a lot worse. For instance, it could be from 9 PM to 2 AM. And so far he’s been very good about sleeping at night: I feed him at around 11, 2:30, 5:30, and 7:30 before getting up for the day. It’s not exactly suck-free, that schedule, but it does let us get enough sleep to function.
2) That whole turbo barfing situation? Uh, so it turns out we were basically milk-bonging the kid. Smaller nipple hole = less frantic gulping = no more projectile spitups. God, you’d think I was NEW at this shit, or something.
Mama’s little PITA. Who I love very very much, even if I do complain about him.
-
My product review site:
[