When I was in high school my church youth group delivered casseroles to the elderly house bound members of our congregation. I was assigned to two houses – Morty and Edna – and I would usually hang around for an hour or two and visit. I remember thinking how pitiful their lives were. Confined to their homes, maybe getting out once a week to go and get some groceries or visit the doctor. Totally reliant on other people to do things for them.
Well let me tell ya, ole Morty and Edna are international jet setters compared to this girl these days. Over the past month a very ass-specific indention has formed on my couch and I’ve gotten into several arguments with myself over the thermostat.
My grim reality set in yesterday as I was doing a quick inventory of my Christmas gifts. A few years ago I received things like Ann Taylor gift cards, luggage tags and a cool laptop bag. This year I was excited about a Pizza Hut gift card, subscriptions to Netflix and US Weekly and a hand held vacuum. And people keep stopping by my house bearing casseroles with pitiful looks in their eye.
Well, first shocked looks in their eye as I open the door looking like rotten ass, but then the shock usually turns into pity as I regale them with stories about how you can have anything, ANYTHING delivered right to your front door, you see? Society has enabled us to never have step foot outside of our houses again!
I’ve attempted to leave the house two times with all three kids, and both times I had another adult there to help. And both times ended with me realizing there is NO WAY IN HELL I’m ever going to be able to leave the house again by myself with my kids. Simply getting a 2 1/2-year-old, 15-month-old and 4-week-old in and out of a van requires a well-thought-out intricate logistical strategy. And once inside, requires two carts and four arms.
It’s much easier to just sit inside and watch Hoarders. Looking out the window is almost like going somewhere, right?
My days are mostly spent thinking about how it’s against nature’s plan for human beings to only sleep in 2-hour bursts and wondering how long it will be before the lack of sleep takes a toll on my sanity as I watch TV from behind my couch because I must hide from the midgets trying to break into my house via the chimney.
I can hear those little bastards’ feet up there… tap tap tapping around… taunting me.
On Thursday our Helper Of The Day was my little sister Sarah, who lives three hours away and couldn’t get here until 11:00. For the first time in four weeks I woke up with the girls and was solely responsible for getting them dressed and feeding them breakfast.
At first I was excited to be doing something that vaguely resembled our old routine but as I rummaged through the cupboards, bleary eyed, I realized I had no freaking clue what we had in our kitchen. We’ve had helpers here every day and I hadn’t been to the grocery store in I don’t know how long. I noticed a Post-It note stuck to the side of the refrigerator with a grocery list written in three different people’s handwriting so I was guessing I needed to get to the store.
This suspicion was confirmed as I served them leftover chicken burritos with a side of Chick-Fil-A sauce and wine for breakfast.
At first it was fun to have so much help. To watch other people carry my laundry up the stairs. Lift the girls onto the changing table. Vacuum around my feet. To tell my Mom what I want for dinner, hand her the baby and go upstairs and take a nap.
“I really wish I could help, but I can’t. Doctor’s orders!” I would lie as they wiped sweat from their brow.
I know I’m going to regret this statement in a couple of weeks when I’m able to resume post c-section “normal” activity, but I’m SO ready to get back to normal life. SO ready to be able to just hop in the van, take the kids and go do something fun. SO tired of relying on other people to get me clean underwear.
Don’t get me wrong – we are UBER lucky to have so many friends and family willing to sacrifice their precious free time to do my heavy lifting. And there’s just something satisfying about watching my Mom stand on a kitchen chair and dust my ceiling fan.
It’s just that I hate asking people for help. I feel like douche of the year as I lean to the person next to me and say, “Can you go put my nursing bras in the dryer, please?”
We’ve got a few more months before Hadley is sleeping through the night, which to me is the indicator we’ve reached the “normal” milestone.
Though I’m really afraid my “normal” is about to take on a whole new meaning.