Life is Like a Pile of Poopy Diapers

We've done it. We've fallen completely in the talk-only-about-the-kids-and-their-diapers-and-the-laundry trap.

English: diaper pile

Idle chatter has been completely replaced with diaper counts and the status of the clothing hanging over the furniture.

I'm lost. I can't say the same for my husband. He has this uncanny ability to keep his head above water, to remain calm and rational in all situations, which kind of pisses me off, but works for him, and even better for us. And frankly, I don't know what I'd do if he didn't have the ability to keep it together as well as he does.

Because I've become a little batty. Batty. Okay?

Between the impending move, the teething twins, the general lack of sleep, my husband's work schedule, and begging, borrowing, and stealing for babysitting, I'm toast. Petrified, inedible toast that's been forgotten in the toaster.

My husband says I'm burnt out. Which, though it hurts my ego, is probably true. I worked full-time, taught at night, and had a seasonal job on the weekends, and I was never burnt out. I worked with inmates and the chemically dependent, and never burnt out. Okay, that's kind of a lie. It was really draining. But I never waved a white flag, and I certainly never gave up.

I've reached the point where everything annoys me, where I have to open the door halfway, in my pajamas, and just breathe outside air for a few minutes, because that gives me temporary satisfaction. I've reached the point where I say what I'm really thinking and let the chips fall where they may. I don't have the time, energy, or desire for politics or correctness or hiding my feelings anymore.

I tried to do this, uh - life - with the help I had available, help from my family. But, sadly, I don't think it's enough. We've been volleying the idea of hiring someone around for months now. Months. And it's at this most inopportune time, in the face of a move and unforeseeable expenses, that I'm ready to give in.

Partial blame for this goes to my physical health. I've been less than 100% for quite a while now, starting with being pregnant with twins, then a difficult-to-heal c-section, then a knee injury that took about five months to heal, and now a proposed 4-6 week moratorium from lifting with the last surgery. All the significant physical issues I've had my entire life have been within the past 18 months.

And it's definitely affected my self-esteem. I never thought twice about my physical health because I never had a serious issue. Now it takes all I have not to fixate on it.

There are days when I swear I don't love my kids, or my husband, or my family, when I want to get in the car, drive away, and max out my credit card living at a hotel, and others where screaming and banging my head on the wall seems the only viable option.

And people still have the audacity to throw quick-fix, one-liners our way, like, "Just let them cry it out!" Yes. Because neither of us have had the presence of mind, over the past year, to figure that one out. Or a flippant, "Just blah-blah-blah!" OH. THANKS. Holy shit, without your sage and timely advice, we may have been completely sunk!

We switched Li'l Slugger to milk and elastic waist pants and all of our troubles are over! It's a miracle!

Our New York trip went belly up, our Boston weekend never happened, and several other dinners were cancelled because we were too exhausted to make them happen. But this I will try again. We're planning another weekend in NYC next month, and I'm buying all the tickets and making all the plans, so someone will be able to go. I just hope it's us.

It's a pressure cooker here, and the next person with the cojones to bark out some common-sense advice about how to fix it all is more than welcome to spend a few days here. I will slap on a set of clean sheets, and we'll get right out of your way. But if you have some support, or empathy, or some real knowledge of what it's like to have three in diapers and teething, we'll be standing by. Half-asleep and swilling vodka straight out of the bottle.

Momma Be Thy Name

@mommabethyname on Twitter 

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mommabethyname@gmail.com

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