Hi, I’m Amanda, and I have a terrible attitude.
I have a job, a roof over my head, and a terrific family… but I thought I’d spend the evening on my blog complaining and relishing in some whining.
I’m a huge bundle of nerves and tears and fatigue. Pull up a chair, lend me your ear (erm… eyeballs), and let me unload to all of you. First — a disclaimer: I know that this is the third trimester emotional freakout. I know this. It doesn’t make it any less depressing, but I hold on to the fact that last pregnancy I called the university counselor sobbing about stupid bitches at work. Yup… those were my exact words.
First off, I feel like shit. I’ve gained nearly 15 pounds since December 13th. Persephone — at 35 weeks — is measuring 8.6 pounds. I’m eating reasonably healthy, but large portions partly because I’m starving because in addition to growing a baby I’m nursing a 33lb toddler 3-5 times a day.
A great deal of the weight gain is fluid retention. My ankles are huge, my legs stiff, and my maternity clothes are barely fitting. My midwife thinks I will have the baby in two weeks. TWO WEEKS.
On one hand that means the physical suffering from swollen legs and an achy back will be gone, but that also means juggling a tot and a newborn. More nursing. Possible incision scars. bleh… yup… I was crossing my fingers for a VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean), but I don’t know if that is possible because Persy is transverse (lying sideways) and huge. There is speculation as to whether she will even be able to turn herself upside down before delivery day.
I wake up to pee 5 -7 times a night and I have trouble sleeping. I sleep for an hour, wake for 20 minutes, sleep for 30 minutes, wake for an hour.
I am so bone tired, but not sleepy. Does that make sense?
Hope is a great kid, but I’m impatient with her. Atticus is being terrible. He is a sweet, smart boy and then he tries to beat the hell out of my stomach, or claws his fingers over my nipple, or rips up his books.
Sam is the current voice of sanity. He is calm and helpful and I’m a constant ball of weeping.
Oh, and I can’t drive the van. My stomach is too big and my legs too short. I’m braking with my toe which is bad because my feet are so stiff I have a delayed reaction.
The house is a wreck. The crib is not yet assembled. And I am awfully, sinfully, horribly jealous of my SAHM friends. I know being a SAHM is no walk in the park; there are days of messes, headaches, no lunch, no coffee, and nary a pee break or shower. At least at work I can pee by myself and finish a meal (most days) or a cup of coffee.
But those damn mommy blogs are killing me. I want to be the top textile designer pregnant with a seventh kid, in a rambling but cozy house, and spending my days in a well-lit studio embroidering. I want to have wonderful glowing photos of a chubby quiet baby looking outside at a snow drift while mom has her cozy knitting and cup of tea. I want the kid’s room to have actual curtains and homemade blankets and storybook sketches on the wall.
I want to be home in my nest and it isn’t happening.
Work is killing me. I hate hate hate my job. I’ve hated it for a long long long time. I do enjoy my actual work task (Interlibrary Loan) but GOD Almighty the meetings and emails and stats and documentation and gossip and laziness and chatter are too much to bear. My days stretch out filled with dullness and stupidity and frankly if I have to deal with whining and temper tantrums I’d rather it come from my 2 year old rather than a 45 year old with a Master’s degree. Don’t even get me started on the inefficiency and rule breaking going on with my coworkers.
Basically I work 40 hours a week AND I try to cram in the cooking and baking and mothering. WTF?
I need to make tons of dinners for the freezer and most of them dairy free. Which means I need to figure out the bills to have the money to make the food. Which means I need to look at my scheduling to check the bills and make a menu and then a list and then go shopping and then cook everything and then freeze everything so I’ll need a day for shopping and prepping and a full day of cooking and there goes my weekend.
And I still need to buy more underwear and a few baby things and figure out and buy a baby carrier. Oh, and I haven’t done all the knitting and sewing I’d like to do.
And time is slipping by and my children and growing and my house is a mess and I’m at that stupid desk every stupid day and dealing with idiots. And I’m impatient with my children and it hurts me to think I’m not slowing down and drinking in this life because there is so little time and so much to do.
I’m just tired and overwhelmed and lonely. Sam is working a lot and doing all he can but I really wish I was in some hippie dippy community with a doula who would help with cooking and cleaning or play with the kids so I can sleep or help me choose yarn colors to make a beautiful blanket for Persy. And she would tell me that I’m not a spoiled brat and that these tears are natural and instinctual and I should drink some red raspberry leaf tea and listen to the river and breathe deeply and enjoy my ability to have children and enjoy my children and husband and wee owl-besotted home.
Since that isn’t an option I’m going to opt for a very long, hot shower, a good cry, a cup of cocoa and a Wilkie Collins novel.
Thanks for listening. Feel free to pour on the encouragement because I could use some right now.