It's Personal

We're going to get personal. Since hardly nobody reads my blog anyway, and those of you who do just LOVE ME and understand me (as much as you can, because let's face it, I'm complicated) I'm going to spend the next few blogs doing what The Therapist calls, "processing". Relax. It will be (mostly) painless for you and completely pain free if you just SKIP the post, altogether. :)


I'm a tiny bit baby hungry. But since I'd still rather die than have another cesarean, I've got some issues to work out. And I need to wean The Baby and loose 50 million (eh hem) 30 more pounds. I feel guilty saying this since I know at least 4 people who would take a baby in a heart beat, gut-slicing surgery and all. Not me. It SUCKED. Twice. If I'm completely honest, and The Therapist says I should be, I'd also rather the baby died than have another gut surgery. (I may have mentioned this post would be painful. Suck it up, Soldier.)


So all that is why I called The Therapist in the first place. That and the PTSD from the cesareans. She's AMAZING by the way. If I could figure out how to make her name twinkle on this blog, I totally would. 


Any way, I THOUGHT I was all done processing and ready to move into my year of pregnancy-free and nursing-free bliss during which I could sleep 12 7 hours every night when Sunday Dinner happened.


I cried. In front of The Hubs' Family. I was mortified. Completely and utterly MORTIFIED. I wanted to leave, but it was our last Family Dinner for a while, and The Boy was having a great time. Here's what happened.


We mentioned we'd like to sell The Hubs car, since he's working from home and we don't need it any more. In the course of normal conversation I mentioned we'd save the money no longer going to car insurance for the future purchase of a larger vehicle. Which propagated the question of why we needed a larger car. So I stated we couldn't get three car seats in the back of ours. Because we have SUPER small kids, The Boy and The Baby are likely to be in car seats until they are 20. No lie. 
One of the brothers-in-law IMMEDIATELY jumped to the conclusion I'm pregnant. To which I replied, "No! Just fat." And nearly burst into tears. Not because they thought I was pregnant and am, indeed, just fat, but because The Hubs' Family are baby machines. They pop out a kid the way I order pizza: no second thoughts, no big deal. It's a HUGE deal for me to commit to being sliced stem-to-stern, having my guts dug out of my body and laid on my chest while the baby is sliced out of my womb and then having everything shoved back in again all while I'm AWAKE. Seriously. Our society makes it out to be no big deal but it is a HUGE deal. Trust me. And then there's the 6 weeks wherein you can't pick up your other children, stand up straight, sit up without rolling onto your side first, cough without pain meds on board, poop, twist or lift anything over 7 pounds, which in my case also means THE BABY. The three months after THAT you can't walk fast or have COUPLE time without pain. It's not just a big deal, it's a freaking HUGE deal. So I cried. And ran away. And that kind of made it worse. Because then the family thought I was sad because I thought they thought I was fat. And I don't even care about that right now. So NOT the biggest thing on plate. (forgive me, it was too good an opportunity to pass up.)


I think that's enough processing for one day. I'll leave you with a cute Boy Story.
He saw some Bird turd on my windshield and said, "No bird! No poop ona car! Poop in the POTTY!" I couldn't have said it better, Bird. But you aren't allowed to use my potty. It's usually occupied. By a three-year-old.