I was bragging about how this pregnancy was so much easier, physically, than the pregnancy I had with Taylor. I should have kept my damn mouth shut. The last three weeks, EVERYTHING has gone wrong. I'm now on crutches from the physio and one stop short of bed rest because apparently cooking and cleaning still constitutes as doing "too much" as far as my ancient and decrepit joints are concerned. Well, maybe bed rest is a tad dramatic, but the only thing they can offer to help if the crutches don't, is a wheelchair. A wheelchair. How is a wheelchair going to work in ex-forces housing with a toddler who is obsessed with pushing and overturning anything with wheels? It ain't. I have homework from a nurse who visits because I'm a couple of fries short of a Happy Meal and occasionally I want to launch things out of windows because the rage ramps up so fast. That's some scary shit right there.
So here we are.
I'm having to lean more heavily on the folks around me for assistance, which feels pretty crap tbh as I don't like being an imposition. I've had offers of help from further away but it's just not practical for one reason or another to accept some of them. I'm being lazy with dinner (fewer home-cooked from scratch) and feeling generally sorry for myself because I've put on a lot of weight (my wedding ring went from too big to too small within 48 hours) and although I know I will lose it again it's just gonna be a pain in the butt to go through it all (on the plus side though, MFP will give me far more calories to start with than I was on as we conceived so it won't be too much of a shock to the system).
I have a posh do to go to at the end of the month and went out with the simple tasks of getting tights and shoes to wear... I came home with spangly flip-flops two sizes too big because that's all my fat feet will fit into. I'll get some fake tan later on and bribe someone to help apply it and paint my toenails. Hell, maybe I'll even spring for a pedicure. I hate my feet, hate them being touched or handled in any way - but if I can't hide them I sure as hell ain't gonna have them looking as awful as they do at an event this posh.
The worst thing is the inner monologue. You know, that pesky voice in your head that asks you if you really neeeeeeed that chocolate bar? It's not actually bothered with food (it's sabotaging me in that respect), no no no it goes "you should have hoovered already" and "gosh, all that dust, get the spray out ya lazy cow" and "wow, I didn't know laundry could breed so prolifically", followed by doses of "maybe you should actually get dressed instead of living in your onesie" and "I'm sure no-one would tell you to your face that your kid's diet is less than ideal, but I will", and "pizza again? Jeeeez lady", yes that sarcastic little shitter of a voice. It makes me feel that people are judging me and how I dress (hey, limited wardrobe here!), how I look after our son and how I run our home and feed our family. I don't want to live in a pigsty. I try to hoover at least once a week, and when I'm not carrying the next Incredible Hulk under my abdominal muscles it's usually 2-3 times a week. I dust. I do laundry (and it eventually gets folded and put away). I pick up after everyone, residents and guests and pets alike (except cat poop).
I try and do what I can, when I can. These days that means not spot-treating the rug to get toddler food out of it every other day. It means the laundry gets left (washed, clean and unfolded in a heap) until you've only got one pair of clean underwear in the closet. It means the dishes get done when we run out of forks or plates. It means whatever can get put off, does get put off. And I hate it. I would rather be run off my feet and have a clean house and home-cooked meals and a dilemma about which pair of underwear to wear that day than to live like this, but it's only for a few more weeks...
I've ordered a steam cleaner so that I can do tough cleaning with fewer chemicals and less elbow grease. New gadget, wooooo. Better cleaning for less pain, wooooo.
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