Can’t talk. Busy falling down the open elevator shaft of sleep-deprivation induced post partum depression. I have stories to tell. Oh dolls – I restarted my ill-fated love affair with the Coach purse. Not a good choice as it apparently went suicide bomber, unable to deal with our on-again-off-again romance.
The husband found an exploded Diet Coke can in it.
All contents are line-drying this morning. The smell of leather, gum and soda soaking overnight? Not so lovely. Knowing that I can cause even inanimate objects to hate me? Just the kind of pep talk I needed this morning.
Other than that, the wee children, they do not sleep. I keep trying to explain myself. Maybe more later, if I ever want to revisit this level of Hell. But for now, I will sum up by saying that yesterday my brain resembled softly scrambled eggs in its capacity to think clearly. After yet another night of no sleep and no private time, it is like a horde of angry bees came by and stung my scrambled eggs.
2 Responses to “Crying in the Shower Again”
Yeah, those were good times. The Coach bag that can be swung across the shoulder, but now after-kids…the only luxury is a Longchamp backpack (with 115 receipts to mostly Wal-Mart, grocery stores, and sanitizer lotion) plus a big ass diaper bag.
So there with ya sista
You said your inlaws were going to be moving your way soon, no? When does that happen?
I’m very lucky that T doesn’t seem to be very mommy dependent. The other day I left him with his nanny in the morning, and when I came back he kept looking at her like “is it okay if I talk to that strange woman?”
I felt a little better when he later tried to vault out of her arms to get to me