I Got Babysat

Welp.

I suppose that I should’ve known that another meltdown was imminent.

After my Great Day I was feeling okay. Good even. I felt like I could do anything. Except contact sports and abdominal focused exercises. Those things have to wait until 12 weeks postpartum.

2 weeks ago though, things spiralled. Again.

Tuesday I started to make lemon meringue pies. My parents had an abundance of lemons and my sister in law had an abundance of eggs. I had an abundance of time on my hands.  Everything was going great until multiple miscommunications resulted in me using the wrong recipe which meant the bases were wrong.

This was something I did not discover until dad came over to try and fix the dryer which had stopped working that afternoon resulting in me trying to beat it into submission.

So, after I fed the pie bases to the dogs in a fashion that gave dad some PTSD flashbacks to when mum had done something similar sans the dogs, I briefly contemplated rage quitting the day. The dogs enjoyed the bases though so at least someone was having a good time.

If that wasn’t enough to top off a spectacularly shit day, as Matt and dad carried the dryer out of the house to the car the dogs both managed to push past them and me. This wasn’t the first time they’ve both managed to get out the front together. The furthest they’ve gotten is across the street before they come back.

Something that I was reminded of seconds later was that this particular brand of Rottweiler are essentially mogwi. Do not add water unless you want a pair of gremlins on your hands. Suddenly we had two giant butterflies in the rain running down the road towards the main street together.

The next second was my brain processing that the two guys had their hands full, dad’s car was parked on the side of the driveway that blocked my car, the baby was asleep in the bedroom and my two big black dogs were running towards the main road in the rain where they were likely to be hit by a car.

Guess who went for a mad sprint after them, in the rain, bare foot?

Twas I.

I managed to get to the dog park a kilometer away before a lady saw me and stopped. My dogs were nowhere to be seen and I haven’t felt that kind of panic in…a very long time. I thought that I had followed them. Thought that I had gone the right way.

To be fair, they did turn right at the end of our street. I just didn’t see the little fucks go across the road and double back through the park there. So while I was yelling for two burnt croissants that were not appearing Matt was picking them up at the other end of the main road. After more yelling and driving around with a stranger for I don’t even know how long, the nice lady drove me home.

Low and behold would you guess who came running to the front door? My burnt croissants. These dumb dogs had no idea what they’d just done or put me through. Dad was holding my very confused baby who could not understand why mum was crying yet again.

I called Matt from my phone that I’d left in the kitchen and let him know that I was in fact not laying somewhere too injured to walk calling out for help. By the time he got home I’d poured myself a strong drink and was ready to go to bed.

The next day little man and I managed to not get out of bed until almost 11. Matt handed him to me before he went to work and after his bottle he slept all morning which worked out for me because turns out my feet did not enjoy my night time sprint. I managed to remake the pies and the next morning dropped them off to my brothers.

Everything was going fine until I got to my parents. Dad was a split second from putting the pie on the bench when the clip let out of the cake carrier. It smashed. I cried.

I cried a lot. Was not my finest hour that week. To be fair the whole week was not my finest. I was so tired and so worn down. Thankfully mum remade the pie so I felt less terrible.

The next day I was feeling a lot better but apparently two breakdowns in dad’s presence was enough for him. When dropping off some meringues to my brothers he also guilt tripped them for hassling me. Hassling that didn’t actually faze me but eh.

That night I got a message from my sister-in-law asking if I was free to hang out the coming Monday. This immediately struck me as suss. At this point I didn’t know that dad had laid down the guilt so I called and asked. I knew what was coming and I had every opportunity to say no. I did not.

So last Monday I got babysat.

She denies that she was babysitting but after my late night run dad referred to me as flight risk so much that it was babysitting.

Anyways.

Her whole point of coming over was to kick my ass. In a nice way…and she came bearing food and gifts, but she was coming to kick my ass. She’d read one of my last posts and that combined with hearing of my multiple meltdowns had her very concerned for my physical and mental wellbeing. Valid concerns to be fair.

After taking Baby Predator to his eight week check up and hunting around for a book that she and my brother had given us as part of the baby presents we sat down with a delightful platter. Then she proceeded to tell me that we can’t be having Little Man sleeping in our room anymore and he needed to be in his own room for naps and at night.

Not gonna lie this made me both uncomfortable and grateful at the same time.

Mum had been telling me the same thing for a few weeks, that I would sleep better once he’s in his own room and eventually he’ll have to go in there, etc. Problem with that was it was a bit too centred around benefiting me. As far as my goblin brain is concerned if something is going to benefit me then it must not be good for the Little Man.

El however did not give me a choice like mum did. She might’ve bribed me with a junior bottle of Jacks but there really wasn’t a choice there. She says that I could tell her to sod off but I also don’t think that she was going to leave my house until I made a change of some kind.

To be fair, she was right.

That first night he woke up a few times but the next night was only twice. A week and a half later he only wakes up twice during the night if he doesn’t accept his 10.30 dream feed. His day naps are a joke but he sleeps well during the night so I’m counting that as a win.

Honestly I don’t know how much longer I was going to last going the way we were. El might have been worried that I was just going to bitch about how she came over and bossed me around and told me how I needed to raise my kid, which if it was anyone other than her or my mum I probably would have but I also knew exactly what she was going to do when I agreed to her coming over.

I knew that I needed help and I’d finally got to a point where I was willing to accept it when it was offered. Still wasn’t going to ask for it because why in the world would I ask for help when I could just spiral into the dark abyss of exhaustion and mum guilt?

I’m sure another meltdown is coming, I’m not so lucky as to be done with them altogether but now I’m getting more sleep and have been able to start exercising again so I’m feeling more like myself than I did before. Little Man is not suffering from being in his own room and I’ve stopped picking him up in the middle of the night in my sleep. Yeah…that was a thing I was doing. I’d just wake up in the morning and he’d be laying on my chest. Matt didn’t put him there and I do not remember getting him. So unless the baby has superpowers I can’t only assume I grabbed him in my sleep.

I am however still tired enough that I’m rambling like crazy and while I know I’ve had certain conversations I don’t remember who I’ve had them with. For now I’m going to try and get some sleep before the small child wakes up demanding food.