...or, the Day Five Hormonal Meltdown, in retrospect.
Don't anyone call the counseling center or anything. I'm including this bit of reality to balance the smug flower-arranging post from earlier. Hey, I'm human, too.
My pregnancy books say that today is the D-Day of the postpartum period. A woman's hormone levels drop precipitously in a cascade of tears and irrational thinking. I've always been one to scoff at other women's PMS complaints. Out of control? How predictable. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
I was holding it all in pretty well. I bit my tongue when every visitor praised my husband for watching Andrew--and he acted like it was some well deserved glory. (Well what do you think I do all day, every day?) I didn't hang up on the endless stream of phone calls which interrupted every nap opportunity, or even the faraway friend who wanted me to get a pencil to write down a different call-back number. Can't you hear the hysterical baby in the background, buddy? I quietly made myself a peanut butter and jelly when I noticed the last two servings of lasagna (and the accompanying breadsticks, and also the cookies) had mysteriously vanished right before I sat down to eat.
It was putting our daughter in the bili-bed for jaundice that did me in. I heard her high-pitched crying, her little eyes begging to be held and nursed and comforted--and that dam of resentment broke. Woe be to the husband who stood unknowingly at the floodgate. I'm pretty sure I did everything except demand the D-word.
Did I mention tomorrow's our anniversary? Time for the seven year itch, my mother so helpfully reminded me, with a sidelong glance at my stretchmarks.
Hope I have enough energy to whip up some humble pie for dessert.