Part Two here.
My third pregnancy? Was like a scene from Groundhog Day. I was reliving my previous pregnancy ALL OVER AGAIN. Same maternity clothes. Same time of the year. Same role of designated driver at the holidays. Grrrr. I was basically pregnant for 2 years in a row. With only 3 months off for good behavior.
Thankfully, Middle seemed to grow out of his colic. And we trucked along, as a family of 4. With another member soon to be joining us.
Mom is a liar. See, I smile. I smile a lot.
When I was pregnant with both Eldest and Middle, we didn't find out the sex. With this pregnancy though, I HAD to know. I needed to be mentally prepared for a(nother) boy. I just knew he was.
I found out on my 32nd birthday, February 8, 2005, that I was indeed, having my third son:
And our life in the Trenches continued. Time marched on speedily, that 2005. Eldest and Middle got older. I got bigger.
And soon enough, on June 29, 2005, our family of 5, as you know us today, was complete.
(My 3 little boyz. All under the age of 4.)
But, that summer? Was actually okay. That was the first summer that Granny 911 came to stay. So I was extremely lucky (both physically and mentally) to have had round-the-clock help for those first 2 months.
In September, my mom left. I quit breastfeeding. I returned to work part-time, but only 2 days a week.
Work was my salvation. At work, there was no crying. No diapers. I was able to be Sarah, not Mommy. Yet I would feel guilty for liking being away from home.
The days I was home all day were rough. I found myself constantly on edge. Constantly guilty that there was just never enough of me to go around. I felt like I was failing my children.
If I had to use one word to describe my state of mind at that time it would be this: OVERWHELMED.
Hubby would walk in the door at night after his work day, and for no reason at all, I would instantly be pissed at him. I began having a nightly glass of wine. That one glass of wine became two. And instead of pouring a glass at 5:00, it became 4:00.
I cried. A lot. And when I wasn't crying, I was MAD.
Later that fall, I was able to get away for a Girls Weekend in Myrtle Beach. Mentally, it was the best thing for me. To step away and remove myself. To rediscover laughter. Relaxation. Girl time. That weekend really cleared my head.
(My 3 girlfriends on that trip had no idea I was struggling. Nobody did. I kept it all inside. Certain that something was wrong with me for having such intense feelings of pure misery.)
When I returned to the Trenches, I knew I couldn't go on pretending nothing was wrong. What kind of mother, after 3 nights away, dreads going back home? Me, that's who.
And Hubby, even though we never spoke about it, knew I wasn't happy. That I was simply making him the Bad Guy, even though he was doing all he possibly could to help.
So I made an appointment to see my OB/GYN.
To be continued...