Let me tell you about my morning. It was a doozy.
Charlie had physical therapy at 8:15, and since we are normally just coming to life around that time, the day had to start a little earlier than usual. I'm getting pretty good at juggling all the things that must be done before we can get out the door, but we were still running a little late by the time we pulled into the parking lot at the Hattiesburg Clinic. Before we left the house, I dressed him in an adorable outfit. It was a white shirt with a puppy on it, and it had long sleeves with brown and blue stripes. The pants matched the sleeves. I also took care to comb his hair and make sure he smelled like heaven, because who doesn't like a sweet little boy who smells like heaven?
As soon as I pulled into the lot and put the car in park, I heard him let go a poop of the liquid variety. No big deal. I picked him up, grabbed the diaper bag, and headed for the first changing-table-equipped bathroom I could find inside the building. Got him to the bathroom and got everything laid out on the changing station, where I discovered that the poop had gotten all up the back of his outfit. Fan freakin' tastic. This is the same thing that happened in Goodies the other day.
It's a major, major pain to deal with a really bad diaper situation in a public place. You've got to balance the baby while getting out the blanket to spread across the germ-infested changing station because they never, ever have any of the liners stocked, and once that's spread out you can put the kid down, but you better keep a hand on him! The sign says so! Then you've gotta reach into the bag, which is precariously perched on top of a garbage can, and retrieve a diaper and the wipes. Then find a spot to rest the diaper and wipes where the (now flailing and possibly screaming) young 'un won't kick them off into the floor. Then take off your jacket and hang it somewhere, just in case, roll up your sleeves, and then start the business of changing the poopy diaper. You have to do all this while dealing with the judgmental stares of whoever else happens to be in the bathroom with you-- and whether it's an older, more experienced mom or a childless, carefree 20 something, it's uncomfortable. The young girls twist their faces in horror, not knowing that it's their future they're looking at, and older, more experienced moms always like to walk by and say, "Oh, I remember those days!" to which I always want to respond, NO I DON'T THINK YOU DO, cause if you really remembered what this is like you wouldn't be smiling at me! You'd be helping! Stop jabbering and GET ME A TOWEL, LADY!
Okay, so I finally got him changed and cleaned up, got everything packed back into the diaper bag, and was holding him when he suddenly started tossing his cookies. It wasn't like he was really throwing up, I mean he didn't spew it out like projectile or anything. He just sorta hiccuped and then a LARGE amount of his breakfast sorta spilled out in a few little spurts. All over him, all over my shirt, all over my (brand new) shoes, and all over the floor. I started scrambling for a cloth, which was buried under the blanket and everything else in the diaper bag, and in the meantime he kept puking. Every time he would hiccup, some breakfast would spurt out. Oh, and let me add that a very impatient lady was banging on the door of the bathroom this WHOLE FREAKING TIME. Nothing like a little banging on the door to tip the scales from Really, Really Stressful
. I finally said, "GIVE ME A MINUTE, I've got a sick baby!"
Sooooo I eventually gave up on really getting either of us clean. Since the lady waiting on the bathroom was so impatient, I figured she could clean the floors up herself if they bothered her. It took us about 3 minutes to completely destroy that bathroom! I thought about calling to cancel his PT, but hell, we'd come this far, right? I mean, yes, the pristine angel I left the house with was now a stinking mess, but I was already in the building. So I decided to just go. I can't be the first lady to show up somewhere with a smelly baby and covered in puke, right?? RIGHT??
When we got into the elevator, an older lady started talking to the baby and making faces at him. She reached up-- and this was golden, people-- she reached up and playfully pinched his little arm---which she didn't notice was covered in puke. She pulled her hand back, and when she got out of the elevator she was holding her hand away from her like it had radioactive material on it or something. Remember these days, lady!?? REMEMBER???
Anyway, Charlie is normally a really happy baby, but he does NOT like this physical therapy. They have to stretch his neck, and it hurts him. I think it might be hurting me worse, I'm not sure. It's very hard. So he was fine until they did that, then he lost his mind, and he screamed and screamed. I don't have the words to adequately describe the stress level. It was really claustrophobic in that little room, and it was hot, and my contacts were dry, and I was covered in puke, and the baby was screaming, and I couldn't concentrate on what the therapist was saying to me. At one point she said, "Are you okay? Am I making you nervous or something?" I wanted to say, "No, YOU aren't making me nervous, everything else about this situation is!" I think she asked that because I was rubbing my eyes, because my contacts were so damn dry, but it made me feel very self conscious.
Then she continued working with Charlie and making me do various things with Charlie, all while he was screaming. I wasn't really concentrating. I was just waiting for it to be over. I kept having the thought that I can't do this anymore-- that I just wanted to grab him and leave and never go back or do any of the painful exercises again. I kept having the feeling that I'm supposed to make this stop for him. Then I would realize that I can't do that, that we have to keep doing this, and I don't have a choice and neither does he.
I guess it showed on my face, because the therapist kept telling me that I'm doing everything right and that this problem is not my fault and that his neck seems a little better already, and telling me that I have to keep doing these exercises with him at home. No matter how she reassured me, I was just ready for this visit to be done, and so was Charlie. He screamed until she opened the door to the little room we were in. As soon as he saw that door open, he stopped. The little bugger must've known we were about to leave because suddenly all was right with the world-- except that I was as frazzled as I've ever been.
It's been a long time since I was a smoker, but I could've taken one down in two puffs this morning.
It took me a couple of hours to regroup after we got home. Everyone says it doesn't get better, that you just learn how to deal with it. I don't know how people deal when they have 2 young ones, but one can wear me out.
I take my birth control a little more carefully these days.