Some funk. And not the welcome kind, the kind that makes you break out in a cold sweat. In no order:
Failing grades across the board. And that doesn't even include what I’d like to be — only what I am, at this moment (at 10-12% effectiveness). That doesn't even include able to climb half-flight of stairs without collapsing like a heap of boneless jello.
In a compromise and experiment after two no-meat weeks I ate salmon, the most inoffensive slab I could muster, and now I'm having f*$%ing fish burps and it's totally disgusting. Every foodstuff I attempt to wrestle into supper immediately takes on the properties of rubber, primal goo or post-bomb fallout shelter. I stand in front of the open fridge with a ten-mile stare, watching as good-intentioned packs of tofu grow fur, bereft of mojo. Not that I want meat: I don't. Surprisingly so. I want a personal chef is what I want.
The only words I'm able to string together — all day long — is "Hang on <offspring name>, I'll be right there! Two seconds!" which, come to think of it, is a lie 90% of the time.
I drive a minivan. Ben has become the anti-swinger and doesn't want to be put down, EVER, and he could reduce even the most rabid La Lecher into suckmastic spasms with his bionic barracuda latch. I can fold my nipples into origami. Right now they are flying canada goose christmas ornaments. I don't even have time to empty the dishwasher, let alone accomplish anything noteworthy for the rest of my f*&$ing life.
This makes me cranky. Crankier still because I've got no right, because one of my babies died, and one of my babies lived.
I remember being told in the NICU that it was likely that Liam and Ben may never get the hang of breastfeeding. I remember standing with so much plastic between us, aching to have them scrabbling and pawing at me. And now having lost one of them, and having discovered that the other is quite the cheerful sadist, I am denied license to be exasperated as every other mother. The only response available to me is serenity, or else I'm an ungrateful twit.
But instead of spending every stolen moment perfecting fusion energy or selling my screenplay or saving Africa or training for the Olympics I am here, whining about how I've got no time for outer space or Hollywood or the Congo or Vancouver in 2010. I feel like this is it: like nothing bigger than this is ever going to happen to me. This is the height of what I'll ever be, within the four walls of this house. And I panic, because I'm not even doing any of 'this' particularly well.
How dare I want more, when I should just be thankful for these two living sons?
Maybe it's just the f*&%ing mastitis.