One of those posts

in which I wail a little, gnash teeth and generally wallow.

This last week was hard. A hard bad week. There were highlights:
– Felix asking if he wrote notes down could it be a song and then indeed sitting at the piano (that shits me because it takes up so much room and has a crack in the board so it always goes flat and it is downstairs not upstairs because mum thought it would be good for the boys. i.e she didn’t want it cluttering up her house.) and composing a tuneful tune. Go figure.
– Grover finding his thumb and sucking it to sleep. Bless him.
– Jasper giving me cuddles. This sounds weird but he’s never actually given me a cuddle. You know, he’ll ‘hug’ me when I pick him up or carry him etc, but the coming up to you and giving you a hug. The one where little arms grip you around the neck and their hot breath is in your ear. Delicious.
– Making my first batch of pineapple tarts and them being delicious albeit it looking very rustic and made in too smaller tart tins.
– Grover’s vocalising. It’s all oo’s and aa’s with pursed lips, big smiles and furrowed brows as he tells me all about it. And now he does it in his cot or car seat, so I can drive along and listen to these stories from the littlest man of the clan.

But the gremlins are afoot.
I am sure it is largely sleep related.
Or lack of sleep related.
And that I am back in the land of losing weight and all the issues that brings to the surface for me.
I am moody.
Snarly.
Cranky.
Short-tempered and indeed unloving.
I have to work really hard not to roll my eyes at the latest round of tears from anyone claiming to be hurt.
I have to work really hard to appear like I care.
About anything.
I feel crowded.
Hemmed in.
But isolated at the same time.
That the world is still turning while I stand still.
And I feel nervy and anxious.
Anticipating something but not knowing what.
I see the bigger boys shielding themselves a little.
I am ever grateful for Jasper who with his crazy two in two weeks antics does make me smile, laugh and enjoy life at least a few times a day.
I’m telling myself each morning, ‘today is a new day, decide now how you’re going to respond to it’.
But the Mary Poppins slide to Cruelle de Ville is back as a daily tour de force.
I don’t even know if that’s how you spell that or if I’ve used it correctly.
I’ll try and pretend to care.
I’m overly sensitive and defensive.
And am feeling generally unimpressed with the universe.

So much of this is related to the weight loss issue as I get my eating back on track.
But that means not eating to fill the void.
A void that is so heavily weighted in a glass half empty mindset.
Of a dead-end career.
Of impossible dreams.
Unrealistic expectations.
Of not being who I thought I’d be at this point in my life
And not being that impressed with who I am.
No, not unimpressed.
Disappointed.

Heather over at Dooce talked about this very sentiment this week so maybe there’s something planetary going on.
Who knows.
But it is suckful and exhausting.

So…

About 10 minutes after that last post – recipes will follow sometime this millenia – Oscar woke up and started spewing. For the next several hours.
And Oscar is not a good spewer.
In that there were times, I heard it come up, and watched him swallow it rather than be sick.
Which is – yes – really really gross.
And also makes the hideous gastro bug last a.whole.lot.longer.
Apart from swallowing rather than spewing, he is HOPELESS with his aim.
Think everywhere but in the toilet.
EVERYWHERE.

Felix went down with it the following afternoon. Sunday. At about 3pm.
He is SO MY CHILD.
Perfect with his aim. Cleaned up after himself. Mostly. Then was deeply concerned about not eating and “well, when can I eat again?” about five minutes after spewing.

I came down with it the following day. Midnight to be exact. On the Monday night.
Think every 15 minutes until 6.30 am.
Think that at around 3 I was getting pretty worried all the wretching was going to break my waters.
Think that at around 5 I was actually getting pretty worried it had all triggered prem labour.

I lay in bed all day.
This is a very rare occurence.
I don’t do sickness well. I don’t tolerate it in others (yes, I got cross at Oscar at one stage for missing the toilet, such a bitch of a mother am I).
I am the type that is a complete martyr and just.keeps.going.
And expects everyone else around me to do the same.

I am married to someone who goes, “Holy crap, three kids have just gone through gastro and now my wife, I’m really tired so to hell with the house, cleaning, washing and let’s just go hang out at the mall/play xbox/eat toasted sandwiches for every.single.meal.”

So on the Wednesday, ANZAC Day, when I surfaced, I cracked.
No really.
I really really cracked.

Because you see,
First there was Jasper being sick. Then I got sick.
Then on top of that was about two weeks of feeling like ABSOLUTE SHIT because I’ve been on new meds for the brain that doesn’t work and the side-effects have included diarrhoea and rolling waves of nauseousness. For oh, ten days.
So then, the gastro round two, ripping through the whole family.
Just kind of broke me.

I did that yelling that makes your throat hurt and raises that niggling concern you’ve either burst a blood vessel behind your eye or developed a permanent twitching nerve running down one side of your face.

I had one of those screaming matches with Chef where I accuse him of doing absolutely nothing and that I feel trapped, overwhelmed and completely taken for granted.

I had one of those breakdowns where I packed a bag and left. No really. I did.
I was going to stay at my in-laws because they’ve just taken off on a trip around the country for 7 weeks.
Instead I drove up to Palm Beach and just sat there in the rain (in the car, I’m not that melodramatic) watching the surfers and realising I had nowhere to go and couldn’t call anyone because this was all because I am severly depressed so all reason has left my head and I’m prone to such outbursts.
I didn’t need to be sharing my stupid outburst with anyone with that back story.
But of course I was telling myself the story that I had nowhere to go, that my home was treated like a dump by everyone else in it and while I spent the majority of my time trying to make it nice for everyone else, it didn’t seem to occur to anyone else, no one, NO ONE to spend anytime doing anything nice for me.
This feeling, this simmering – prone to rapid rabid boiling over – sentiment still stands.

For example. Chef and I have an agreement that each of us get to sleep in one morning on the weekend. WITHOUT FAIL, my sleep in involves children coming in AT LEAST four times. It involves getting up to a WRECKED house of clothes everywhere, no washing done, a kitchen demolished, rubbish overflowing, toys turfed over every possible surface, and me lying in bed listening to innumerable tears and fights. Chef’s involves absolutely none of the above and he generally surfaces sometime between 10.30 or – like today – 11.30. If it’s earlier its to a coffee and pancakes. Because I do that kind of thing because I’d like it done for me. And I think it’s nice.

Chef has not taken the recycling out, done a load of washing or cleaned a bathroom ONCE in the last six months without me having asked first. This could also apply to vacuuming and taking out the rubbish, but I know he’s done these spontaneously on occasion due to necessity – like Jasper tipping and ENTIRE LARGE box of Weetbix onto the kitchen floor and crushing it into some ode to the 70s hessian flooring.

I’m pegging it at 6 months because that’s the extent of my memory at the moment.

And yet, for a Dad, correction – for a Dad in all the Dads I know – he does an extraordinary amount with the kids. And I look at his relationship with our children and it makes my heart hurt. Because I never ever had that with my Dad and it is something I desperately wanted for our kids. And they’ve got it.

And here’s when I do the tail between the legs thing – that I know I am completely obsessive compulsive. Set unrealistic goals and standards for myself – and then maintain them for a period of time until well, you’re 7 months pregnant, working full time, trying to be a parent to three kids, commuting two hours a day – at least, working in an incredibly toxic work environment, and have a brain that reaches a point where it just goes “enough already!” and just.shuts.down.

So here I sit. Angry, moody, tense, sad, incredibly tired, and feeling like I am sailing so close to the wire its even freaking me out.
I mean, I now have enough self awareness to know that I am not in a good way at the moment. And I marvel on the last time I was this bad (when Felix was born and then when Jasper was about 7 months – but that was more a hideous reaction to the latest happy pill) and that I had no idea I was just depressed. How scary is that! At least now, today, I know I’m just crazy.

I went back to work on Thursday – spent the entire day feeling like I was going to hurl, with aching joints and an incredible feeling of lethargy. It didn’t start that way.

Friday I stayed home with Jasper (because daycare is near work and I wasn’t about to drive an hour to drop him off for three at home before having to go get him again) who refused to sleep and just felt incredibly sorry for myself and angry with the world. Oh, and then the washing machine broke – and I spent an hour trying to fix it, which meant moving it – holy GOD it’s heavy – and MY GOODNESS the crap and filth underneath it. And then I found the problem. A gold coin. A pretend, plastic, crappy gold coin for the boys to pretend they’re pirates. Big enough to fit down the “you really should stop being so stubburn in resolutely refusing the check people’s pockets in some doomed attempt at making them check them before putting them in the middle of the hallway/bathroom/bedroom/living room to be washed” hose, but too wide to be excreted. And yes, that is the appropriate word.

So no washing until the repairman came yesterday. On a Saturday, “between 12 and 2” and arrived at about 12.02 and fixed it. And only charged us $40. What a legend.

Nothing much has changed really.