I don’t know about the rest of you and by ‘the rest of you’ I mean the portion of my readers who bleed once a month in a way that is not alarming except, you know, you don’t want to. I mean, none of us really want to bleed once a month but you know what I mean.
Sometimes – and now with my regular drug regime even rarer than sometimes – my post period mood issues are far greater an issue than thoseÂ preceding.
Today is a case in point.
I am at my lowest ebb for some time. Weepy with a smattering of fierce anger and associated vitriol. Overwhelmed and full or resentment.
As I type Jasper and Grover are having a fierce battle full of screaming and tears over a packet of cheap-arse bendy straws I had bought some time back and have just binned because all of them are split where the bendy bit is.
Oscar has just stormed off because I refuse to let him play xbox.
And on it goes.
I am in one of those mindsets where I detest our life. Our perfectly good and reasonable life. A life with minimal concerns and food on the table. When you compare it to others.
I am wishing I was
single childless. In New York, or London, or anywhere in Italy. With a wardrobe full of wonderful this-season wear and shoes for every possible event and then some more for the imagined. With AB swanning to the theatre or something else you can attend on a whim.
I am wishing I did not have to count every single dollar I spend. I am wishing my paining feet and ankles would go away. I am wishing my worries for Oscar would abate. I am wishing wishing wishing…
I know it is because I am tired. I know it is because of the year that this year has been. I know it is because my period just finished and I was very tardy with my fish oil and evening primrose oil and vitamin b supplements. I know. I KNOW.
I know this too shall pass.
I know I am blessed. I’m just having a wallow. Just a bad day.
It’ll be fine. No really. It will.
I started a list of things that shit me yesterday and commented that there were loads more things that fitted the bill that had fallen out of my head, and how that reality shitted me just as much. Here’s the list for today because people, I’m one fine embodiment of pregnant cranky:
– the granny splints (or bowling braces as Chef has nicknamed them) are shit. They have made no difference except to worsen my already crappy sleep. Now I wake up because I’m lying on one of them and dear GOD they hurt if they’ve spent any time being pressed into your flesh or because I need to roll over but can’t really because I can’t lean on my wrist to do so. And so on and so forth.
– in fact the carpal tunnel is worse, now the end of my fingers feel cold with the weird prinkly numbness.
– crap-arse sleep. I know I know, it’s all in getting me prepared for when night feeds become a reality once more, but COME ON. For the last few nights I wake with a real fright at 3am. This morning I sat bolt upright with such velocity it woke Chef (difficult at the best of times), the next thing I know, I’m waking up, upside-down in our bed, freezing my arse off. Now my shoulder hurts.
– children waking before six. This has been our reality since having Oscar as he is an early waker. But can I just say, we had reached a wonderful world where he got up, QUIETLY went down the back room, found some supply of sugar and watched TV. Now he seems intent on waking all his brothers and having a game, normally involving a soccer ball, in the hallway. On the wooden floors. Squealing, jumping and thumping through it all. This morning, after many many mornings of warnings, it did not end well. I absolutely lost it. I’m still quite disgusted with him and am in that whole “get out of my sight” parenting modes. Yes, quite the ability to bear a grudge have I.
– Further the the 19 month old turfing everything is the need to then pick everything up and I’m absolutely epitomising one of those pregnant women who claim they can’t bend down. And how they shit me.
– Idiot planners who build movie complexes alongside shopping centres. I.D.I.O.T.S. Their true stupidity can be experienced when you have the wettest June in 42 years, and you, in all innocence, go to the hideous mall for birthday present shopping, but it takes THIRTY FUCKING FIVE minutes to get IN to the car park because of traffic. EUGH.
– When you clean the bathrooms and they are sparkle-arkly. And your husband washes the floor for you. But then empties the bucket of floor water into the bath, that you have cleaned and disinfected. FLOOR WATER. Into the BATH. Where the CHILDREN bathe. WHY???
– When you actually feel like you are going in to labour, but no nothing will come of it.
– IDIOT shop assistants who say things to you like, “Oh I’m sorry, I couldn’t stop looking at your tummy, you must be due soon.” What you want to say:
“Yeah, I don’t know, the doctors say it could be soon”
“What do you mean due?”
– The consistent – my own water torture – drop-ins by my mother. She’s here now. She’ll stay for probably another 3 minutes, then go again. Leaving me with children who had been playing on their own, now looking for someone to provide stimulation because what they were doing was interrupted. That and a 19 month old sitting at the door to her place wailing. Yep. It is SO helpful having your mother live upstairs.