About six months ago, sitting on my couch two months post partum with baby #3 and feeling as though my entire life was only about cleaning poop and yelling things like “I SAID IT WAS BEDTIME 10 MINUTES AGO WHY IS NO ONE LISTENING I AM MOVING TO A HOTEL FOREVER SERIOUSLY NO MORE STORIES I JUST STEPPED ON CHEDDAR BUNNIES AGAIN NO MORE CHEDDAR BUNNIES WHY DOESN’T CALLIOU STOP WHINING THAT’S A BATHING SUIT NOT PYJAMAS BLARGH BLARGH BLARGH”, I made an ill-advised decision (and I know about ill-advised decisions- I had various perms from 1989 to 1995)- I decided to train for a marathon.
It seemed like a good idea at the time. Apparently, six years of perms taught me nothing.
Oh! I’m awake! I’m still super tired and it would probably be a good idea if I got more rest which means….it must be time to get up! I know what The Mom says about “sleeping” but I doubt anything has ever gone horribly wrong because a three year old was overtired, Diary.
Hmmm…my bum feels wet. I guess I should have gone pee in the toilet last night when The Mom and The Dad told me to. Oh well. I’ll just take my soaking Pull-Up off and leave it here in the doorway to my bedroom. If I’m lucky, someone will step in it. Preferably my older sister. I’M HILARIOUS, Diary! Read More…
I don’t have a six pack. I have a three pack. A three pack of little people who started out as teeny, tiny bunches of cells and grew inside me to become large baby loiterers stomping on my bladder and punching my ribcage before pushing themselves out in the beautiful, gory wonder that is childbirth.
My three pack stretched and pulled my body in every direction and each time it was put back different than it had been before. By the end, they left me understanding completely why “mom” jeans are a thing.
But hey, no worries! According to the lady mags with some Jessica/Kate/Britney Celebrit-adashian on the cover, I CAN get my “body back after baby”.
Here’s the thing- five months post partum with baby #3 and I realized something- I don’t need to get my body “back”. It’s not lost. I use it everyday.
Last weekend, we attempted the annual pilgrimage to coax our children into ignoring all previous warnings about strangers and sit on an old man’s lap (a.k.a. “The Santa Photo”). Unsurprisingly, it was not the shiniest moment in our Holiday season.
Me: Okay, everyone, Santa photos start at 11 a.m. We need to leave by 10:45!
No one looks away from Paw Patrol.
Me: Okay, guys! We need to leave soon. Who wants their hair brushed? Are you guys excited to see Santa?
No one looks away from Paw Patrol.
Me: Okay, seriously? Now we’re going to be late. We’re going to miss Santa if we don’t go RIGHT NOW.
Children reluctantly and begrudgingly move away from Paw Patrol. Spend exorbitant amount of time looking for socks. Decide that Santa will not put anyone on the naughty list for lack of socks.
Sometimes, my mom skills are not exactly on point. There are many, many days and long, long nights where my approach with my children is less consistent with what is outlined in parenting books and more consistent with a commando survival approach that is equal parts impatience, uncertainty and laziness….
I have relied on Happy Meals to avoid both cooking for them and emptying the dishwasher.
Netflix has prompted me with the “Do you want to continue watching?” because episodes of “Paw Patrol” have been playing continuously for so long (side note: I find Netflix can be super nosy and a bit judgmental. Know your role, Netflix).
Dear Xman (a.k.a. Xavier, Xaves, Xavey, Bud, Buddy, Da Buddy Bud, Fluffy Bunny Guy)
Obviously, you are perfect. And obviously, I have gotten over the fact that you are a boy.
A year ago I might have thought that if a third baby didn’t happen, that would be okay- we were complete as a family of four. I was so very wrong. Read More…
I am exactly two months postpartum with baby #3 which means my life right now mostly revolves around keeping alive/parenting/shooshing/chauffeuring/bum wiping a newborn, two and a half year old and a five year old (who most of the time wipes her own bum but with mixed results). Not surprisingly, at least once every day I am asked (obviously not by my children because they don’t care), “Are you tired? You must be so tired!”
Can you hear my beleaguered sigh through the world wide webs?
What is this tired you speak of? Is tired when you don’t get a lot of sleep ONE night and the next day you are feeling a little off so you just go to bed earlier? Is tired when you need to have a quick nap and then you feel refreshed again? Is tired when you order a Venti coffee at Starbucks and are back to 100%?
F*ck no, I’m not tired. At this point, I might give one of my children to be just “tired”. Tired sounds fantastic. Tired would be a vacation.
What I am is exhausted to the point of delirium and random bouts of sobbing on a good day, in a waking coma on a not so good day, and a zombie from ” The Walking Dead” (with less decay or half eaten face, but similarly unkempt appearance) on a bad day. I exist in a place where an IV of Sudafed and Red Bull wouldn’t make a dent.
Just today my exhaustion resulted in:
- Walking into a wall because I forgot to turn in time
- Spending five minutes tying my shoes before realizing that I didn’t know why I was putting my shoes on or where I was going
- Losing my iPhone, driver’s license and drycleaning all at separate times
- Sleeping so hard during a 30 minute nap that I woke myself with my own snoring only to find my face soaked by the drool which had pooled on my pillow and my two year old telling me I had spit up like the baby
I also located a jug of milk in my bathroom with zero clue as to how it got there- or why I had brought a jug of milk into the bathroom in the first place which is probably the more important question.
I realize that one day I won’t be exhausted anymore. I will move to just being tired. And then I won’t be tired anymore, but I will move to being sad. Because if I’m not exhausted and I’m not tired, it means they don’t need me quite as much. So for now I will continue in my waking coma wandering aimlessly into walls some days- I will be grateful that my children are still at an age when they need me most of all- and I will try to only wear shoes without laces.
As you already know- and is apparent from today’s ultrasound photo which is, unfortunately, not a birth announcement- I’m still in your belly. Oops!
I realize that I’ve given you a lot of signs over the last couple weeks that I would be coming out- really sorry if those bouts of 10 hours of contractions and a week at four centimetres dilated left you with the wrong impression. It’s kind of like when your alarm goes off in the morning and you have every intention of getting up but it’s just super cozy so you hit snooze, then you hit snooze again….well, hitting snooze on this whole labour thing is kind of my jam right now.
There comes a time in the third trimester when the comparison of your baby to a piece of fruit is no longer as compelling as it once was because THE FREELOADER IS STILL LOITERING IN THERE AND YOU ARE SO OVER IT…this time seems to correspond with every stranger demanding to know “How far along are you?”. Triple sigh. Eye roll. I. Can’t. Even.