What Fresh Hell Is This?

Weeks one through four are a blur as described in the previous post 3Hour Myth. I could have cared less if I wore pajama pants every day and who knows if I brushed my teeth.

Weeks four through eight the hormones making me a crazy person are slowly leveling off and I have hope that eventually I’ll return to the old Ellen.  However, I’m still healing from the c-section and haven’t been allowed to drive, bend at the waist, pick up anything over 10 pounds, or exercise (hahaha).  Now I find myself asking if I’ve brushed my teeth and I begin trading my comfortable pajama pants for restrictive jeans. Although I’m not even considering drying my hair or applying make-up TJ is obviously happy with this new change.

Teddy has discovered his feet so we spend a lot of time taking his piggies to the market.

Weeks eight through twelve are heaven.  I’ve officially been deemed healthy, I’ve gotten into a great routine with Teddy.   I’m venturing out of the house, drying my hair regularly and even applying makeup every now and again.  I’m pretty much on top of the world, but then the shit hits the fan. 

We flew to Georgia when Teddy was about 12 weeks old and when we got there he started spitting up and didn’t act like his normal happy self.  He would have good days and fussy days but I chalked it up to being in a different time zone and a new environment.  When we got back it took him a few days to adjust but he was still pretty fussy.  

It went downhill fast.  He was spitting up all the time and he went from sleeping 7 hours through the night consistently to waking up every 3 hours screaming for food.  I reverted back to the crazy, un-showered, pajama wearing, no house cleaning Ellen.  I was getting thrown up on at least 4 times a day and the laundry pile was daunting.  (Imagine Nancy Kerrigan screaming, “Why me?)

For the past two weeks I just couldn’t figure it out.  Teddy was insanely predictable and then all of a sudden I had no idea what he needed.     I was on Google constantly.  We tried gripe water, gas drops, adding an extra feeding, no swaddle, offering him a horse for his 6^th birthday.  Nothing worked.  TJ put his foot down and we called the pediatrician on Monday.  He recommended a half teaspoon of Maalox for every other feeding.  We were desperate so we tried it.  That little shit slept from 7:30pm to 5:00 am without so much as a sound.  There was hope!  Sweet Jesus had thrown us a life ring and we were going to get our precious child back.  The next day we learned he has a mild case of acid reflux and he needs medicine twice a day and blah blah blah, we didn’t care.  We just knew there was hope.

This was before we called the doctor.  All I had eaten that day was the bag of popcorn behind me.  Teddy needed sleep so bad that I broke my own rules and just let him sleep on me.  I sent this picture to TJ at work with the subject of, "I'll take Stressed Out Mama for $500 Alex."

By Thursday I was a new woman.  I still wasn’t getting dressed because I was getting  thrown up on pretty regularly but he was already showing improvement and was back to his happy self.  Then it happened.  I went to change his diaper and was disgusted.  He’s had his first blow out.  I was appalled.  There he was, laying there covered in poo and just smiling at me.  I will not go into detail but I spent the next 15 minutes sanitizing, bathing, throwing outfits away, and trying not to throw up.  Why did he have to be in footy pajamas?!   Who would have thought that much poo would be in between cute little baby toes.  Those piggies were for sure not going to the market. 

I was done. I gave myself a mental high five for surviving and I handled it much better than I thought I would.   Both of us were fresh and clean and I kiss him on the cheek.  He coos sweetly at me and then throws up ALL over his new outfit and me.  I calmly set him down on his activity mat, sit down, put my hands over my face and weep like a small child for the next 5 minutes.

I shake Thursday off with a new resolve that at least he’s getting better and I have hope.  Then it happens again.  For the second day in a row, another blowout.  What fresh hell is this?  I’ve traded constant throw up and no sleep for the poo baby?  So there you have it.  The ugly truth about Motherhood and life.  Just as soon as you think you have everything figured out, life throws you a curve ball.  Motherhood is teaching me to just roll with the punches, but every now and again you get a Mike Tyson upper cut and the only thing you can do is hand your husband the baby the second he walks in the door and go pour yourself a nice large glass of cabernet.