Man. Today was rotten. Did anyone else have a terrible Tuesday? It started off semi-descent because I made myself go to bed last night at a decent hour (by midnight), but then all hell broke loose after the Husband left for work this morning. And I don’t think I’m exaggerating or complaining. I’m merely relaying information here about my day. I’m totally not complaining or whining or looking for sympathy. No, not at all.
Apparently Bubba has caught another bug. I swear we just went through this. Yeah we did. I have written proof, and a picture to submit as evidence. That was about a week ago. A week’s respite I guess is better than no respite. This is me trying to look at the bright side of things. So anyway, I find Bubba in his crib this morning seeping snot from his nose. He’s covered in it. It looks like he took a bath in it. And the poor little guy’s eyes are glassy, and tired, and half open. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he had a hangover. Pureed mangoes and sweet potatoes must be a wicked combination. Anyway, I know I’m in for a rough day.
As the day progresses I realize that I’m starting to feel sick too. And I have what I can only assume is a clogged milk duct. Who knows how or why. Maybe because Bubba won’t finish a feeding so I’m getting backed up. TMI. TMI. TMI. Sorry if you think so. Here’s some more TMI. If you’ve ever had a clogged udder, you know the pain I’m feeling. If you haven’t, try to imagine your boob (if you have one) filling up with some sort of liquid, let’s say breast milk. But there’s a blockage so there’s no exit for said liquid. At least not all of it. So pressure builds. Your boob turns into a rock. And you feel like your going to bust, but you don’t. You just bite your tongue if anything so much as brushes against your chest area because it’s akin to what I imagine a man feels like when he’s kicked in the groin. Just using my imagination here.
I’m no dummy. I know I have to try and de-clog the problem before it gets more serious, and that means pumping because Bubba isn’t in the mood to eat. But I can’t find a spare minute to do this since Bubba wants to be held and Bosco is asking me over and over again to get him some socks because his piggies are freezing, even though they are actually sweating.
Then, probably just to see how much I can juggle, the fates that be decide to make this the day that Bosco regresses five months in his potty training abilities. Pee on the couch. Pee on his bedroom floor with the extra added bonus of poop this time. All while I’m trying to get Bubba to go to sleep and stay asleep longer than ten minutes. I get a call from the Husband, and I tell his my woes. He tells me not to forget to eat lunch. Click.
The nerve. How dare he expect me to take care of myself when there are two boys who need my complete love and devotion! That’s when I realize that my clogged duct is definitely making me feel yucky. My neck is tight, I have a headache, and I can barely move my right side. I’m determined to get Bubba to sleep so I can deal with the issue. But he won’t stay asleep unless I’m holding him. And I would love nothing more than to just sit there and cuddle this sick babe so he can rest. But I have another boy who’s patiently reading books by himself in his room, and quite possibly messing in his pants again. Mommy guilt and frustration come over me in waves. I have two kids. Not three or four, or more. I should be able to figure something out right? And I know what I really want is for things to be perfect . . . that silly desire I have, back again. But I’m getting better at this whole mommy thing. Today, that desire is just going to have to go straight out the window. And so it did.
Bubba had to cry while I got Bosco his lunch. Bosco had to watch Sesame Street by himself while I was in the nursery with Bubba. They both had to wait while I ate something quick and barely edible for lunch. Bubba had to sit in the highchair while I put Bosco down for his nap. I had to leave a fussy Bubba in his crib so I could go pump. Then, miracle of miracles, they were both asleep. The house was quiet, besides the Darth Vader sounds coming from the baby monitor. Not too shabby.
So what if my living room looked like this by noon.
At least there’s no crayon on the walls, or shredded couch cushions. At least no one vomited. See. There’s always a bright side.
Now you try. Bright side: At least . . .