September 25, 2009
On Nesting. And Going Crazy.
So, I’m nesting. Sort of. It goes in spurts, really. One day I’m too tired to do anything at all. The next day, I’ll be completely neurotic about something, SOME VERY IMPORTANT THING, and it will need to be done, RIGHT NOW, or no one in this house goes to bed that night.
The house must be clean! CLEAN, I say! The littlest things will bother me. Like socks on the floor (I’m looking at you, Doug and Dawson). Or toys. ALL. OVER. THE HOUSE. And the clutter. Magazines, school papers and half-opened mail are piling up on my kitchen table. I have six million tomatoes on my kitchen counter. And I cannot deal with it. Not any of it.
Add to this mix of chaos and insanity the fact that I’ve been trying to clean out the pantry for two weeks, but I cannot get to it because those other things (see above) are nagging at me. So I take time out of my day to deal with that and then have no energy whatsoever to do anything else.
I started sorting baby clothes a few days ago, and then I was sidetracked by vacuuming the living room, because in my mind people could show up unexpectedly, and why would I want them to see that a child actually lives here? One with too many toys?
Poor, poor husband. I’ve been a raging ball of hormones and have yelled at him repeatedly for not helping me enough. Several times each day he tried to escape my wrath by heading to the garden and harvesting tomatoes that I swear he already picked. The very same tomatoes on the counter. I really think he takes some away at night and brings them back in the house the next day. You know, so that it looks like he’s doing something.
Also, I think he’s shoved cotton balls in his ears because I have to REPEAT MYSELF CONSTANTLY.
I asked him five times to take the broken bread machine to the garage to be thrown away. After it sat on the dining room floor, next to the deck door, for TWELVE days, I finally took it out to the garage myself. An F-bomb was said and the neighbor across the street heard me. She no longer waves at me when we pass each other on the road. Apparently, I am now the closest thing to the devil himself. At least to her. Okay, and my husband. Whatever.
Doug was all, “Geez, Louise! Settle down! What is wrong with you? And F-word? Over a bread maker?”
And I lost my mind. I began crying and shaking and raving like a freakin’ idiot. I was sputtering, “You don’t understand! YOU JUST DON’T GET IT!”
We didn’t speak the rest of the night. The next day things were fine. That is until he buried the chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream behind a bunch of other crap in the freezer. The yelling ensued. More tears were shed. I promptly sent myself to bed. I didn’t want the damn ice cream anyway. What I really wanted was a big fat margarita in a glass the size of my head. With lots of Tequila. But alas, the things we give up to bring a beautiful, chubby baby into the world.
Speaking of babies, I don’t think we’ll be having any more children after my outbursts. What man wants to have sex with a stark raving lunatic?
In my defense, I just can’t help it. It seems like I have no control over anything anymore. Especially my hormones.
Also, I’m the the only one who does anything around here. The huz tries to help, but things go unfinished because he thinks he has other, more important priorities (like painting the garage door and trim, and installing a new garage door opener, because he thinks winter is arriving tomorrow). Then I become infuriated and the stupidest things set me off. I can’t do it all. I physically cannot do everything.
Poor Dawson thinks his mother has turned into the chupacabra from his Scooby Doo DVD.
I probably have turned into a monster.
My days are chaotic. This is my typical daily routine:
- Wake up early (most of the time)
- Work for 2 hours
- Check e-mail
- Wake Dawson
- Get Dawson dressed
- Let Murphy out to pee
- Feed the dog
- Make breakfast for Dawson
- Make sure Dawson brushes his teeth
- Check Dawson’s backpack and folder to be sure all forms and things are signed and sent back
- Get Dawson on the school bus
- Work 3 more hours
- Check e-mail
- Wait for the bus to drop off Dawson
- Make lunch for Dawson (oh yeah, and for me!)
- Let the dog out to pee, again.
- Put on Spongebob to occupy Dawson
- Finish working
- Straighten the living room, dust and vacuum
- Wash dishes
- Check on the laundry and try to put it all away
- Check Dawson’s backpack and folder for new notes and/or forms
- Pay bills that may be due
- Check e-mail
- Pick-up stray toys around the house, or command Dawson to do it
- Take Dawson outside to play
- Return books to the library and check out new ones
- Try to read a book that does not have colorful illustrations and rhyming words
- Sort toys and set aside two boxes for Goodwill
- Clean out the storage closet and donate more items to Goodwill
- Fold more laundry but forget to put it away
- Read books to Dawson
- Ask Doug seven times to load the boxes in the car so I can drop them off at Goodwill the next day
- Ask Doug to make dinner while I take a nap
- Fall asleep watching television (most likely Dancing with the Stars)
- Yell at someone for something because my hormones are out of whack
Oh, and did I mention the 349 times I have to stop what I am doing at any given time to pee or wipe a certain 5-year-old’s butt. And let’s not forget the occasional adjustment to the schedule for conference calls or MOPS and MOMS Club meetings, or Church Activities. And Saturday Soccer. Or going to the bank, post office and grocery store every Friday. And the fact that my husband is most often working (or hiding in the GARDEN) while I’m trying to manage this damn household.
And you people wonder why I’m crazy?
To my husband and son I say: Y’all better hope I don’t die in childbirth, because it appears you CANNOT FUNCTION WITHOUT ME.
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September 25th, 2009 at 9:15 AM, Headless Mom Says:
Oh Sweetie. I’m soooo with you, hormones or not! Just read the post that is coming up under my comment!
.-= Headless Mom´s last blog ..I’m Not The Fun Mom =-.
September 26th, 2009 at 7:44 AM, The Dana Files » I’m Not Sure I’m Ready for Labor Says:
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