There’s A Toddler Tapping On My Last Nerve
32 weeks. That’s how many weeks I have spent so far growing this Little Buddy inside me. Nobody told me how much harder the second pregnancy is. With Destroyer I bounced around happily until the very end. I had energy. I got fat all over. I felt tight. I felt excited.
This time, I’m gaining all in the belly. Sounds awesome, right? Except it looks like I am carrying a goliath sized basketball under my shirt. And all that pressure is on my bladder, and it feels like my vagina is working overtime just keeping him inside. Sorry to bring up vaginas so early on a Monday, but christ.
I’m slow. I feel tired. Everything is a real effort. And by everything, I mean parenting my toddler.
Oh the toddler. I blame her completely for my misery. For being so awesome and beautiful and making me think babies were such a piece of cake. And then this weekend happened. The weekend I started to cut back on work because I feel tired and sore and all that shit, but mostly because I simply don’t give a fuck anymore. Less time working meant I had way more time to spend with the Destroyer. So more time working for free.
Friday: We decided to go to the mall. Destroyer used to love the mall. She’d happily sit in the stroller and watch all the things and all the people. But now she gets antsy and starts acting like an asshole if she doesn’t get some time to run around. So I thought we’d go hang out at the play area while Daddy finished up some shopping.
Great idea. I get settled in to watch her happily run around, and realized that as she’s running, she’s puking. In the play area. Not sick puking, but Destroyer puking. Because that’s how she rolls. She’s a puker. I can tell the difference, because if something is wrong, she’ll cry too. She just coughed and gagged and up came her dinner. Fucking great.
Now for this reason, I always have a change of clothes with me. But the play area has nothing to clean it up with. So I go to Customer Service and they call the cleaning staff and no worries, right? I mean its a play area with kids, right? To my surprise, the parents that were there were rude and haughty about it. Gave me dirty looks. Acted as if their child had never shit or spit up in public before. Give. Me. A. Break.
Whatever. It gave me great pleasure to send her back in, and watch them scramble to get their children out. We actually had almost the whole thing to ourselves for a while. As if were 1982, and she had AIDS or something.
So anyway. We went home for bathtime.
And bathtime produced an enormous shit in the tub again. For anyone who needs to know details about this glorious event, you read about it here, in Poopalooza.
Bedtime was a happy moment on Friday.
Sunday: Sunday was what really got me down. Destroyer whined her way through every fucking thing she did. Or didn’t do. Or wanted to do. Or couldn’t do. Incessantly. Constantly. She needed my attention and engagement at all times, and it was making me bitchy and tired. I couldn’t complete a task. I couldn’t go to the bathroom. I couldn’t answer the phone. Or put the groceries away. Or not pay attention to her for one goddamn second. Unless we were outside. Thanks God for outside.
And it was making me crazy. And making me feel like I couldn’t keep up. And worried for those days where Husband will be working and gone for like 14 hours and I will be alone with two children under the age of two.
And it made me feel like I wouldn’t be able to handle it.
Will I? Will the three of us make it through every day? Is it too early for postpartum depression?
So I gave in to my hormones and my frustration and I yelled at her. Then I marched her up to her room and slammed the door, because I couldn’t listen to the whining cry for one more second. Cause all of that helped.
Except you know what? It totally didn’t. And what made me feel like the biggest douche of all time, was when I opened her door two minutes later. To her tear streaked little face, her sad eyes, and her arms reaching out to me for comfort. To me. When I was the one who caused most of her misery in the first place.
That kid has a lot of faith in me. I hope she’s right. Or the three of us are fucked this summer.