Yes, it's been that kind of day-already.
It really begins last night. Son has been sneezing and chasing a runny nose for a couple of days, but yesterday he woke up with a squeaky voice, which only got progressively worse. While it was sort of cute, I could see that this was going to head down a bad path. By that night, he was in near tears because his throat hurt. He wouldn't eat his dinner, and practically screamed when he tried to get some juice down.
Husband volunteered to take him to the pediatrician this morning, but not without desperate need to somehow get a medal for doing it. It is supposed to be warm today, so he first complains that he can't find a short sleeve shirt. Yes, they are in the closet on the left hand side. What about shorts? Yes, they are in the closet on the left hand side. What socks? Good grief-where they have been for the past 31 months of Son's life? By this point, I'm at the point of telling him to get the hell out of the way and just let me do it (which I think was the desired outcome). No, no, no he protests, I can do it. Finally, he heads out the door, and I asked him where Son's coat was. Yes, it is supposed to be in the mid-70's today, but it is only 55 outside right now. He's sick. He needs a coat.
What followed was a symphony of slamming doors and cars peeling out of the garage because they were allegedly going to be late. (They weren't). It was my fault that Husband didn't find Son's coat out in the back seat of his car, where he had put it yesterday. I was so damn mad at him I could barely see straight. I'm still ticked off. I do all of this stuff as a matter of course, just because it has to be done. I don't buy into the whole attitude that my chromosomal makeup allows me to have my act together as it applies to parenting more so than Husband's. It's just because I pay attention. Husband can't be bothered with the small details like what the weather will be like, or where the clothes go. Because, heaven forbid, he would pick up a laundry basket and actually do something with the contents other than just deposit said basket in front of me. Never mind the whole full time job thing. The job that needs a bit more attention than it is getting now-I need to do more than just tread water right now. I need to be able to show that I can handle it, but having to have another full time job at home on top of it makes me extraordinarily crabby.
Oh, and one more thing, since I'm bitching. He doesn't get how I'm wound up so tightly right now that I can't relax long enough to breathe, let alone be an enthusiastic partner in intimate encounters. I'm not doing this to punish him, really. I just have zero desire to do anything along that line. It took me longer this time to heal from birth, even though it wasn't quite as physically traumatic, it was just tougher overall. Two years can make a huge difference. Anyway, between the work demands, the pressure to keep things together at home, plus the whole downshift in attitude due to the happy pills, I'm just not horribly engaged right now. On top of that, when he comes to me right after the alarm, and I'm listening to the monitor for stirrings from BabyA, and to the room across the hall, it's hard to have any focus on the task at hand. He's frustrated, I'm frustrated, and no one is happy. I just want to curl up into a ball and cry some days. I just feel as though I'm stuck in a vise between everything, and it just keeps getting tighter and tighter, and I get more and more compressed.
Happy freakin' Monday.
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