Mere days ago, I was up to my eyeballs in xmas cheer. Budsie and I were baking up a daily storm of treats, enjoying the outdoors, and packing up all the prezzies for mailing. I pumped out 80 xmas cards with photos and pleasant notes. I completed the Santa presents and stocking gifts. I knitted an obscene number of homemade xmas gifts. And the whole time, I kept the house in complete order. Super mum!
Friday’s reward for such hard work was the most amazing concert I’ve been to – three hours of Leonard Cohen’s oh-so-sexy voice. Pure awesomeness. I came home feeling so at peace with the world. Saturday was family fun times with the in-laws. Dinner out and a nice chat with AH post eats. I went to bed excited about the xmas dinner I was going to make everyone the next day. Roast chickens with vegetables and ginger cake with hot-buttered apple sauce for dessert. Nom.
It was on Sunday that I started to think something wasn’t right. It isn’t right, for example, to suddenly find yourself hiding in your bed under the covers, frantically texting your sister that you’re afraid to go upstairs because then the day has to start. As if the day won’t start if you don’t go upstairs. I was totally fine with making dinner for seven adults only the day before – “come on, Ezmy, get your ass in gear,” I muttered to myself. So I made the food. But as I was making the food, I could feel my mind start to….go. I was slowly taking leave of my senses. While chopping carrots, I found myself wondering if I’d be able to look after my new kid and my first kid. While prepping the chickens, I started to become convinced that I wasn’t actually a good mother after all, although I couldn’t identify what it was that suddenly made me a bad mother. By the time I was serving dessert to my totally happy guests, I was certain that the best thing I could do for my family was to leave. Run away. Never return. Because I was incompetent.
Oh the sense-making.
Monday, I woke up exhausted. The kind of exhausted one feels after weeks of 3 or 4 hour nights, followed by jam-packed, hold-it-all-together days. By the end of Monday, I was alternating between vomiting and crying uncontrollably for ABSOLUTELY NO REASON. Things did not improve much on Tuesday. Assuming I had the stomach flu or something, I asked my likely somewhat confused husband to stay home and look after Budsie, while I spent the day trying desperately to sleep. Just a little bit. Even just for an hour.
But I couldn’t. And I didn’t last night either. A. went back to work today and after he left, my mum came by and I was crying again. FOR NO REASON. Seriously, nothing is wrong. I’m stoked about the baby, stoked about xmas, stoked about my life in general. Best husband and son ever. Years of joy to look forward to. But I can’t get to sleep and am in constant pain. The combination of which appears to actually be driving me insane. I’m sure the hormones don’t help either. Sigh. I find myself dreading all the things I was looking forward to only a week ago. I can’t get excited about baking, knitting, reading, or even watching a damn tv show. The Big Move Next Summer simply terrifies me. Don’t even get me started about the having the baby part. Even responding to a text message takes all of my mental strength because I don’t want to sound pathetic or sad in said text. WHICH MAKES NO SENSE BECAUSE I AM NOT ACTUALLY SAD. Omfgs.
Pregnancy is for the birds, I tell you. The. Birds.