I cannot remember ever being so overwhelmed. So sleep deprived. So unsure of my future. So underconfidant that I can do something. So unsure, so stressed, so sad and happy at the same time. Whoever said when you're up, you're up and when you're down you're down must have been a new parent.
On good days, I shower and smile, clean and accomplish things. Laundry, dishes, shopping lists, bills. The babies seems to nap at the right times, my son doesn't destroy anything while I'm not giving him enough attention. I'm not nodding off in some random position. My stomach, back, neck, shoulders don't hurt. I listen to the radio or watch a movie while I multi-task. I answer email, update my Facebook status, download pictures, blog. Maybe I even make time for my poorly neglected husband or even more neglected self. I am happy and alive and it feels good.
On bad days, I cry. The wave of despair washes over me and I understand what it feels like to drown. To not have enough time to take a breath, a break before you go insane. All three are hungry and crying at once. How do I pick up two screaming babies at once, let alone get them to latch on to breastfeed in a frenzyll the while my son is doing dangerous things that require my immediate attention. How do I feed bottles and fix him a snack? I have to pee too, babies! It is too much. I am hopeless and dying and all I feel is pain.
Then someone will come along, my husband arriving home from work, my dad swooping Bryce up (probably because he feels I am neglecting him) my aunts keeping him overnight or picking him up from school, my mom taking a baby or two so we can walk outside in real fresh air.
For the first time yesterday, Mother's Day, they all slept at the same time for almost two hours while I showered, pumped, read a few chapters of 'Breaking Dawn'. Happy Mother's Day! (I also went out and had a much needed margarita with a friend to truly mark the occasion!)
When things are harmonious, I think, "Wow, this isn't so bad. I got this.' Then all hell breaks loose. Bryce wakes up grumpy and hungry and I pacify him with snacks while I change and feed a baby. When he throws his food on the floor he is done and wants down to wreak havoc as I am now attempting to latch both babies on to breastfeed.
It is during this time my stress levels reach unbearable levels. When my attention is unable to focus entirely on him and I am anchored to the couch under my life preserver of a breast feeding pillow, he wreaks the most havoc.
Like an animal, he senses my weakness and pounces. Does all the things he knows he's not supposed to do because he can get away with it. Climbs on the back of the couch, dangerously close to falling headfirst into the concrete floor. Disappears into his room quietly, which is always a bad sign, where I discover him pulling off every single piece of paper off a Post-it pad. He hits, he bites, things he never does unless I am tending to them both and not him.
They all poop at the same time. Somewhere along the way, I mix up the babies and feed the wrong bottle to the wrong baby. I lose track of who ate what when. I devise creative ways to keep them safe from my son, who is bored out of his mind with all his toys and me. I ache to play with him, make him laugh, give him the one on one time and attention he deserves.
By the time my husband arrives with ingredients for dinner, they are all three in tears and he promises next Mother's Day will be better. I believe him and smile through my tears. If you can't beat em, join em!
