Slipping

I've written about the ice here before, I don't want to do it again. I've been basically living on and in a glacier for months. Inches of solid ice cover the ground and every inch of sidewalk and walkway to be found. You can try and salt it away or scrape it with your shovel, but then it rains. Then it freakishly falls forty degrees and you are back where you started. Eventually you give up.

Work wasn't good this week. It's really stressful at the moment and while I hate to play the pregnant lady card, my hormones just can't keep up. I'm short tempered, quick to speak and slow to stop and think things through.

This weekend was hard. I hit my breaking point this morning when I decided my son could not go to the grocery store with me unless he put on the shirt I picked out for him. Why do I care about a shirt? It's not the shirt itself, it's what the shirt represents. He's becoming more determined, more strong willed and bigger. He's growing out of his clothes and he refuses to wear the new ones I keep picking up. Ones I pick out with such care, knowing he won't wear animals or alphabet letters or characters of any kind. His tolerance is very small. As is my patience. So I put the hammer down. Wear the shirt with the soccer ball or stay home. I figured eventually he would cave. He wouldn't. He spiraled out of control. I struggled to get out of the house with him hanging on my coat and stood on the porch my heart racing. Because it was all wrong. I wanted him to come with me. He wanted to come. A lot of the time I think he is just testing me, but sometimes I think it's more than that and I don't know what to do. He couldn't bring himself to put on the stupid shirt and I was the one making him so miserable. But if I let him go then he wins, and trust me, he wins a lot. My head spinning I came back in the house. My husband barked at me to just go already. I lashed out at him. Now they were both pissed at me. I went in my room and hid. And cried. A lot. The kind that makes you think you've got nothing left. And waited. My son wore himself out and fell asleep. I snuck out.

After letting him sleep for a couple of hours and feeling guilty I crawled into his bed and slowly tried to rouse him with back-rubs and soft words. He asked for his potty, which usually sits in his room when he's asleep. I went to the bathroom to retrieve it, turned the corner to walk back to his room and CRASH. I can't tell you how or why, but my stocking feet flew out from under me. I slammed into the gate leaning against the wall and then came slamming down on top of it. I'm not exactly sure but judging how I feel now, I think I hit the floor with my elbow first, then my hip right after. I've fallen before, both with this baby and the last one, but this was worse. When it's happened before I've had my hands free, managed to take the brunt of it with my hands and knees. This time, with my center of gravity way off I tumbled to the ground, too close to my belly with no rhyme or reason. The tears I thought I had exhausted spilled out from me again as every bad thought from placenta previa to premature labor came falling down with me.

I called the triage line, because I always do and heard exactly what I thought they would say. No contractions, no bleeding, no cause for alarm. The baby is moving and I know that's good but so is my brain. Frustrated this morning with everyone and everything I found myself wondering why I chose to go down this road at all. How we would all manage. I have walked these ice patches for months on end, carrying a thirty pound toddler in high heeled boots. How is it that I wiped out steps from my own bed?  Is it because I tempted fate? Asked the questions you shouldn't ask?

It's forty degrees today and while the ice retreated a little, it rained again and night time with it's plunging temperatures is coming. Not a minute too soon.

Edited to add: Not long after writing this, we bribed him into eating his dinner which he then stood up and ceremoniously puked up all over the dining room rug. My hot bath and early bed time became a date with a steam cleaner and a lukewarm shower. Nice.

Comments

[mrs. chicken]

No words of wisdom. Only virtual hugs, and I feel so much of the same, friend.

[amanda]

Oh, you! Parenting a toddler is hard enough without being pregnant. And ice bound fro pete's sake. Cut yourself some slack and might I suggest that if there is another vomiting incident you tell Dad that you simply cannot manage with your weak stomach.

[Jenny, Bloggess]

Oh, sweetie.

If I was there I would hug you and pour two coktails (I'd drink yours for you) and tell you that it'll all get better and recount the time I almost knocked myself unconscious by having sex. Nothing makes you feel better after a fall than hearing about other people hurting themselves.

[amanda]

oh friend...sorry for the slip, the shirt drama, the steam cleaner and the hormones! wish i could help - what can i bring you?

[Kelly]

I'm sorry. I got nothing for you either, except for a soothing 'I understand'. When my daughter turned 3, I thought that someone had come in the night to replace my compliant child with a psychopath straight out of the gates of hell. 3 is hard. Really hard.

I'm sorry you fell too. Painful enough when not pregnant, I know the stakes are raised when you take a tumble with a belly full of baby. It'll be okay. Just breathe and remind yourself, it will all be okay.

[susiej]

Virtual hugs too... it's just so hard.

[Kimberly]

I'm sorry for the all, the crying and the mess. I echo what Kelly said: three was my least favorite age to date. It's by far (IMO on what I've experienced so far) the worst age. Take it moment by moment. You'll do just fine. Hugs!