This is a post to bring you all back down to reality with me.  I posted these sweeter than pie pictures a few days ago.  And everybody swooned, which I expected and hoped that you would do, just as I did.  But I wanted to remind some of you, and reassure the rest of you that the life I’m living over here is real.  I’m not living some fairytale all the time.  Just because I’ve done this a few times doesn’t mean the difficulty of it has ceased.  A little more tolerable, maybe, just because now, when he screams I do have some idea of what to do and how to hold him to get him soothed, but it doesn’t make it any less nerve-wracking to hear that cry.

So, here’s what’s real.  The nitty-gritty.  The not so pretty.  And know, that at the end of the day, I don’t regret this, I just want you to know there is a flip side to this, even for me.

I don’t have any pictures for you today.  I haven’t taken any in a week.  I don’t feel like finding the camera, making sure everyone’s dressed, the food is wiped from their preschooler mouths, their boy hair isn’t sticking straight up, and that the baby’s shirt doesn’t have some stupid one-liner commentary on it. 

I said “crap” this morning.  Don’t get me wrong, this is not the worst word in my arsenal, it’s just noteworthy because my two year old immediately said, “What’s crap, Mama?”  and not in a “What is that word you just used?” kind of way, but in a “What is so wrong, Mama?” kind of way.  And I couldn’t give him a “just this” kind of answer.  Because it’s everything.  It’s the crap I tripped over in the floor, because, you know, did I forget to have the kids clean up last night or did it blow up this morning already without me noticing?  Because I’ve changed no less than 5 diapers in 2 hours.  Back to back.  Because TheFinalist poops, then pees, then poops and just when you think he’s done and you put a fresh diaper on him… he poops again.  And pees again.  And poops.  Crap.  The poop. 

I sat here this morning trying to figure out what’s wrong with me.  Is it that the house is dirty?  Is it that the baby is dirty?  Is it that we’re out of milk, and diapers, and pads?  Again?  Is it because it’s raining?  Again?  And then I thought, “Today’s Thursday.  Tomorrow’s Friday.”  And just what is the significance of that?  It’s been 3 weeks.  Crap.  I remember this place.  I remember a few months ago when Melissa was having a day and shared it with us.  I remember telling her then that she was 3 weeks out and that, for me, is the lowest point.  It always is.  Even when, overall, I’m doing pretty well, considering.  As in, I’m not on Zoloft and don’t feel like I need to be this time.  But even with that reprieve, 3 weeks is just crap.

With the 3 week growth spurt comes the feeding frenzy.  I’m still sore from the initial feedings, but starting to become acclimated, and then the around the clock, can’t get enough, feedings start up.  To be followed by the engorgement in a couple of days – that I’m also not looking forward to.  Crap.

As I mentioned earlier, he’s a pooper.  Just like TheOldest was at this age.  And just like his brother, because of this, we’re already battling the really bad diaper rash. 

And would that stinky, funky cord just fall off already?

He’s found his voice.  And I’m really hoping that the last couple of evenings with a hurting belly is just a fluke.  Not a sign of the colic of my first and fourth children at this age.  Please.  Please?

I haven’t gotten to hold my 2 year old nearly as much as I would like.  And when he asks me for a “pick up” or “color wis me, Mama” it somehow drives a stake into my heart.  But when I sit down to cuddle him in one of those 2 minute rare moments that I’m not holding the newest, BigMan suddenly wants nothing to do with me.  Twist the knife.

And am I ever not holding the newest?  I have the 12 minute diaper change, followed by an on and off feeding for 35 minutes, followed by another 10 minute-pee-on-me-poop-in-the-new-diaper-get-yet-another-diaper change and get him settled, just to think that I have a few minutes to switch the laundry, start some more dishes, bathe somebody, do anything, and TheFinalist starts screaming again. 

And that scream.  Built in to make you do something.  When trying to get ready for the WIC appointment the other day he screamed that scream for no less than 30 minutes.  Do you know what that does to a person?  Oh.my.crap.

Homeschooling involves all the same “Focus, sons”, “Hold on, overachiever daughter”, and “BigMan, why are you peeing on the floor?” moments and now includes “Just a second I have to finish nursing and then change him.”

And me?  Thanks for asking.  Everything hurts.  Still.  It’s getting better, but really it still hurts.  And could I please be done with the pads?  And the weird hormone induced dry skin that makes me itchy all over?  And my back hurts.  And not just at the epidural site, but the upper back muscle pull of holding a newborn all the time.  And then there’s the stop in your tracks back catch that happened when I was bathing ThePrincess and BigMan.  Really?  I feel so old.  I can’t possibly drink enough water.  I hate water to begin with and then I have to increase it, really?  And I can’t strike the right balance between Pericolace, Metamucil, and what happens when I use nothing at all.  Ugh.

I don’t have any idea what my children will be for Halloween (that’s 2 days away, if you’re keeping count).  We haven’t carved the pumpkin that sits on the counter.  My 2 year old is in full potty training regression and absolute constant defiance.  My daughter is 4 and has at least as much attitude as the average teenager.  MyMiddlest whines and is more accident prone than all the others combined.  And MyOldest is just that – the guinea pig that constantly brings about more parental guilt than I thought possible.

Maybe tomorrow the sun will come out, I’ll wash the kids for the camera, and stepping on legos won’t send me over the crazy ledge.  It’s not always this bleak, but somedays it’s just foggy, dreary, and rainy.  And you just feel like saying, “Crap.”