Note: I’ve been thinking of starting a series of posts called “Moment By Moment.” These will give you a snapshot of a moment or two (or more) of our daily lives, the good, the bad, and the ugly. Let me know what you think!
I sit on the sofa, my newborn sleeping fitfully against my chest. His big sisters are nearby, my oldest one on the sofa calling out requests for “A croissant please!” and “I need some juice!” and her little sister (the middle child) works at their play kitchen, dutifully trying to prepare her sister’s meal. A tear slips down my cheek.
I have been crying lots of tears lately, happy, joyful, grateful tears, but this is not of those kind.
Today, I feel defeated. It’s early, but I’m tired and this is the first peaceful moment my children have given me. It’s 10:30 a.m. and already I am wishing my husband home and the day be done. Today, the final day of the first week on my own with my three littles, my oldest has cried because her shirt is itchy and she wants lotion on her skin. And after I put said lotion on, and asked if she needed any more, and put the lotion away, she cried because she was still itchy. And she doesn’t want to share today. Every time I turn around, she is snatching another toy away from her sister. And then her sister starts screaming. And all that screaming in between her whines and cries to “Eeeeeat. Pleeeeease eat. Mooooore eat.” She just ate. And the baby! Oh, this sweet, precious, snuggly baby boy who turns into a possessed, screaming monster when I try to put him down so I can prepare food for his sister to eat. Or so I can do laundry. Or just so I can pee.
It’s been this way most of the week, but today is the worst of the worst, and I am spent. Done. Defeated. It’s feeling hard to remember why I’ve yearned for this sort of chaos so long. It’s feeling hard to believe I ever thought I could handle three kids at one time. Just a few years ago, I would have given my right leg and both eyeballs to be in this moment. But now? I’m wishing they’d grow up. I’m wondering what my exact breaking point is. At what point will I become one of those mothers who slaps her child across the face or just walks out the door and never comes back? I’m crying because I feel regret, and guilt. I wanted this. I would have killed for this. I’m so ashamed.
The quiet moment passes too quickly. The girls start squabbling again. Screeching at each other. I put the baby in the Moby, but he moves too much. His legs push against me and, somehow, he works his shoulders and arms free of the wrap. I switch him to the Boba and he wails. I’m tired, and I need to make lunch and pick up the toys littered from one end of the house to the other, and while I do all of that I bounce him and he finally calms down. When I stop to catch my breath, he starts again. And one of his sisters starts begging for food again. And the other begins complaining that she doesn’t like chicken nuggets.
I sigh. I just have to accept it. Today is a day of defeat. It just is.
The baby is strapped into the Boba, my nerves are jittery, and I am cleaning the house when I feel it. My underwear are wet.
I had thought my postpartum bleeding was over. I’d put the pads away a couple days ago. I shouldn’t have.
I reach to grab some toilet paper only to find that my 4-year-old, who has become obsessed with wiping herself recently, has wrapped the paper around the roll in the most bizarre fashion that I can’t find the free end and start tugging, tearing, and shredding it in an effort to get some for myself. I am on the brink of a tantrum. I begin to whimper.
With the baby against my chest, I struggle to wipe my underwear with the shredded TP and then tape on my panty liner. My underwear are wet, but I don’t bother to change them. I’m too tired, and it would take too much effort with this baby on me. He is starting to stir and whine. I’m not moving enough. All I want is to rest, to breathe deep and hear nothing but silence and be free of anyone touching me.
I would also like to have a good cry. I can feel the tears coming and I fight to hold them back. Our house is falling apart. I can’t.
But I do. I cry.
“Please let the day get easier, dear God,” I pray as I bounce my baby and the tears fall quickly onto his head. I am waving my white flag of surrender. I am crying uncle. I need help.
For the first time, I wonder, What have I DONE? For the first time, I think, I can’t do this.
It seems pathetic to say it again, but…I’m defeated.
Nothing has gone right today. The baby waffled between fussing, crying, and going bat sh*t crazy every time I put him down. My daughters whined and fought and screamed and cried all morning long. I yelled back. I ripped toys out of their hands just as I was telling them not to do the same thing to their sister. I started bleeding and I wasn’t wearing a pad. Everything I picked up I seemed to drop and had to pick up all over again…while lugging around a baby in a Boba. The sky rained. The wind blew. My husband called and I thought it was to offer his sympathy, but instead it was with questions about our health insurance. He was cranky. He hates insurance companies. We received our hospital bill and it’s all wrong. Another insurance company to fight. And as I was writing this blog post, on a computer that we just bought and I’m still learning how to use, I accidentally deleted a long paragraph I had typed out and I had to type it again.
Yes, it’s a day of defeat. And I don’t know if tomorrow will be any better. It could be this way for a long time.
But one day, it won’t be.
There are always better days ahead, I’m told.
And I think I remember that being true.