My hair is fragile. Soon it will be coming out in clumps like little clods of grass at a soccer game. My body has been through the war, but it fought the good fight. Seven weeks postpartum, I can sit, I can move; the stitches are gone, but my soul isn’t stitched up yet and I am coming undone. And the meals have stopped coming! I’m sucked dry of all my nutrients to plump up this bouncing baby boy. Depleted. Skin feels thirsty. Face has a sagging feeling. Eyelids feel the weight of 50+ nights of interrupted sleep, preceded by months of fatigue. Lightheaded. This morning I woke up with something on my mind and it stayed on my mind all day. Distracted. Tears came today and I had no say in the matter. That old alone feeling. I held a sleeping baby, but for me, sleep would not come. Only hot tears. Could have, should have, would have. I need to remember to write that check. The house is messy. What’s that phrase? “Cleaning can wait… Today I will hold my babies”.. You know the one. My relationships are thin. And that makes me sad. I am not myself these days. My life is not my own. Change is hard.
Tonight I decluttered my house in a whirlwind, in an effort to cleanse my brain. Make dinner, fill bellies, put jammies on those bellies and get them to bed, fold 3 loads of laundry, move those toys to their rightful places, empty dishwasher, fill dishwasher, switch that dirty sheet, move this clutter here, put those magazines over there, think about that thing I need to do and forget as I notice another unfinished task on the way.
There are pieces missing and there are sad thoughts and what ifs and feelings of regret and loss and guilt for not being enough for my children. I am tired and that makes emotions run high, just barely under the skin. The same skin that feels droopy and grey. The same skin that is calm and collected before everyone else.
Some more crying- not mine. I change the sheet again.
**good thing it is General Conference weekend**
***good thing I’m making pancakes tomorrow***
**** sorry for the downer. this post is just keepin it real. Tomorrow I’ll write something nice. Nicer. Or something.****