Hold Me

So I'm wrapping up the second night of being alone with the boys after surgery while Nate goes to work, and if I'm going to be completely frank, it's sucking. 

Instead of stewing about it, I want to laugh about it, and to laugh, I write. 

So I can't lift over ten pounds, not unless I want to cause myself considerable pain and set myself up for a hernia and therefore another surgery. I can't walk very quickly or for long distances, make sudden movements, or bend forward at the waist without feeling like a rod is being jammed into my sternum. Don't ask me why that is because I really don't know. My belly is swollen from all the trauma but at least now I only look like I'm four months pregnant instead of six. PROGRESS, people.

There is basically fishing line holding my abdominal muscles together. Fishing line. It can take up to sixty pounds of pressure!

And I'm in charge of newly minted three-, five-, and seven-year-olds. "Newly minted" meaning they all just had birthdays. And they're boys, so really, it's like 1-, 3-, and 5-year-olds.

I feel weak, helpless, and impotent. And kids sense weakness. They really do. Not only do they sense it, they exploit it.

The first night, it was like, OH HEY MOM CAN'T MOVE, LET'S FUCK SHIT UP! They preyed.  They destroyed, and they annoyed. Also, I did too much, and by bedtime, I was in a horrible mood and put them to bed in a horrible mood and woke up in the morning feeling like a real dick. Which is a fun emotion to add to the weak, helpless, and impotent.

I vowed to be better Thursday night because I am nothing if not an eternal optimist, but deep down, knew I wouldn't be. Because I was scared, and animals lash out when they are scared. Or they run and hide, but I have nowhere to run and hide to.

After dinner, I walked them to the park. You'd think, for the older two, that after a couple of days of school after a mellow summer, they'd be wiped out.

NO.

I gimped, they ran to the park. It takes maybe four minutes. As soon as we got there, and I'm not shitting you, literally as soon as we walked into the park, Brandon went off to the side and stood there, refusing to move.

WELL, DON'T WE ALL KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS.

I had no wipes, no diapers, nothing. Four minutes. If only we had left four minutes later, this could have been avoided. I felt so defeated. Timing really is everything! 

I thought, and thought hard. To buy us more time, I decided to change him out of the poopy diaper, let him free-ball it, and hope he didn't piss his pants. I took him into the bathroom to clean him up, and remembering that it hurts to bend over and forward, looked for a table or counter to put him on. Found one, and like a total idiot, lifted him onto it.

I was mid-lift when I remembered that I am not supposed to lift over ten pounds, and here I am lifting well over 30. Good thing my mom instinct took priority over self-preservation, or I would have dropped him on his face. I cleaned him up, then told him cling to my back so I could get him off the table, then awkwardly lowered him to the ground using my legs. As soon as I stood up and walked outside, I knew I had really screwed myself.

My insides were screaming. Five hours later, as I'm writing this, my insides are still screaming, They are tender and the pain meds are barely making a scratch on the surface of it. I'm totally stoked to get a hernia. I've never had one before! They're lots of fun, I've heard.

After a while, we walked (I crawled) towards home. On the way, someone walking their dogs, one on a leash and one OFF, let the dog off the leash run up to my kids. No big deal, except two of my kids are scared of dogs. 

People who let their dogs off their leashes on public streets and then do absolutely nothing as their dog runs up to children who are clearly terrified of said dog running up to them deserve to get kicked in the fucking teeth. They may "know" that their dog isn't going to attack the kid, but the kid (and parent) doesn't know that. And when a kid starts screaming in terror and running from their dog, common sense and general human decency should prevail and the person should call their dog back. Or, you know, have them on a leash in the first place. That's just my opinion, along with the opinion that people who don't call their dogs back are real dicks, and they're lucky their dogs don't get shot.

So that was fun. The dog was a big, loping idiot who just wanted to have fun, so it was a bit more forgivable. I calmed my kids and herded them away from the dog, then felt like a pussy for not telling the irresponsible dog owner what a dickface she was, because I hate confrontation.

Further down the street, we encountered a very friendly older lady who was absolutely fascinated that all three boys were mine. They're ALL yours? You're growing your own baseball team! Shockingly, I get this kind of reaction frequently and it only makes me wonder what people with more than three kids get. Are they looked upon as circus freaks? 

As we chatted and I tried to pretend that my insides weren't blowing up, Brandon found a bright green glob of chewed-up gum on the ground and thought, best toy ever! He got it all over his fingers, every single one of them. I tried to clean off as much as I could with sticks and leaves but it was futile. 

In hindsight, at least he didn't chew it.

Ready to collapse on my face, we got home and by sheer force of will, I got them into bed. 

Friday will be better. I know it. I really do. That's not my eternal optimism talking, here. Their grandmother is taking them after school for the evening! Oh thank God. I'd jump in the air and click my heels together but you know, I can't.

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