Friday, November 30, 2012


 3rd wheel at Renn's master gardener award ceremony. Officially a "master"

cute photo of Bunny and Mr Renn that has nothing to do with my post

People in my life appear to be in agreement that I'm doing well post-partum-wise this time around.  And in general, I'm inclined to agree with them.  Though I realize it's largely a matter of perspective.

  Because I'm aware of the advantage I have of not moving across the country, or doing without my spouse for 6-8 weeks right after having a baby.  (Realizing I did that right after both Sir O and our Gentleman were born.)  I'm aware of the blessing of having family close enough to have had several of them stop by just to see how they can be helpful.

  I'm lucky that I gained 15 fewer pounds with this pregnancy than with the last one, while the babies from both of those pregnancies weighed exactly the same amount (and were my largest.)  That's 15 fewer pounds to lose before I can start to look like a human body again instead of a walking water-bed. (Postpartum bodies are such alien things, and mine is currently exploding with a patch of wonky-hormone-acne.)

  I'm lucky that our Bunny sleeps enough at night that I can fathom getting up and doing what has to be done to take care of everybody each morning.  I may have screaming bloodshot eyes, but by golly the beds are made, the kids are fed and dressed, the dishes and laundry get cycled through, and I sweep and mop the kitchen floor, and wipe down the boy's bathroom several times every day.

  The baby blues aren't eating me alive like they were after the Captain was born, in fact I feel reasonably optimistic about my life in general.

  But there is one problem.  While persisting in being so "functional" in regards to so many temporal things,  I am strung out and lacking patience something fierce.  I have, of late, become an unacceptably mean mom.  I yell, a lot.  I get angry and say things that are not appropriate to say to little children.  I complain to them about their ineptitude, I ask them if they hate me and tell them it's the only way I can make sense of their bedlam.  I'm pretty sure I injure their spirits multiple times every day.

In my defense, their entropy is maddening, overwhelming, and absolutely constant.  I would never feel comfortable asking any 1 other person to take on all 4 of my kids (let alone running the household) for even an hour, let alone the "all day every day" that I do it.  It's somehow too much to ask of anyone, except myself.

So I'm really, really hoping that this will improve as I slowly get less sleep deprived.  I'm grasping at straws for ways to be better in the now while I wait for that other development.  I'm fairly disappointed in myself overall, but I'm hoping against hope that my kids will be resilient enough that they aren't having extensive conversations with a therapist someday (talking about that time their mom was so volatile post-partum.)

It's kind of amazing how many ways there are to screw up this parenting gig.

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