I’m almost through my second week of sahm-ness and for the most part, I seem to still be alive. And, by a surprising coincidence, my son is as well. (Eleanor is, of course, completely perfect and no trouble at all). While still alive, I am worn out.
While feeding Eleanor again… (and I say again, because all I did yesterday afternoon was feed her. Constantly. From about noon to 5 pm and I am not even exaggerating) I noticed a funny discoloured spot on my shirt.
I immediately thought it was poop. And then immediately assumed that I’d been walking around covered in poop all day. Typical. That’s my MO.
What I’d forgotten was that I’d gone to the dermatologist that morning and the P.A. had done a few biopsies. It seems every time I go, they cut little bits off of me…(see last summers posts here and here, oh and here) I wasn’t expecting to have things cut off this time, but my family is apparently a spotty, moley, skin tag-ish group of people. And some things were looking suspicious. And I’d rather have them checked out than not.
So 3 biopsies later and some bandages slapped on, I left and went and picked up Vince. And with the regular chaos of the rest of the day, I completely forgot all about them. They were still numb, so I didn’t even feel the areas until right around when we were hurrying to get to soccer practice on time.
And that’s when I noticed these poop spots. Which, in actuality, were blood stains. Super duper! 2 of the sites were on my torso, one on my stomach and one on my waist. And both were apparently rather bleedy and the bandages really teeny and, well, I was covered with dried blood.
(And I needed to leave for soccer practice pretty much right away)
(And Eleanor was crying)
(And Vincent was winding himself up)
(Oh, and we ran out of bandages and I had to use Vince’s Angry Bird ones)
Somehow we managed to get out of the house, bandages flapping and baby wailing. And somehow we managed to get to soccer on time. I am still amazed.
And so the day ended. Blood, bleeding, babies crying. Wait. How am I alive again?
With each day that passes, I seriously respect the women that do this on a regular basis more and more. Clearly (for me at least) it’s not something that everyone can do, as evidenced by my psyche at the end of each day. In 4 weeks I will be back at work fulltime, and I know that I will be thinking of this period as one of the best in my life.
At least I hope so. If I’m still alive. You know, in case I have dropped dead randomly from all of the four-year-old attitude I get on a daily basis. Or the ‘Mummy, I don’t love you’ comments. OR (and this is my favorite) the full on, drop-to-the-floor- I’m-so-pissed-at-you-I-can-barely-speak-fits. Ya, those. You know those. Probably one is happening right now.
All I can hope for is less blood. At least that is realistic.