Focal Shift

I am sure that Special Care will grow on me, and I will be fine with it. Finn is doing well, and that's the most important thing, but at this moment, I am hating it. Of course, I am hating most everything right now. If I remember correctly, this is what PMS feels like. Everything is getting on my nerves, and since Pete is around me the most, he's bearing the brunt of my frustration. I spend a lot of time sitting on my hands or biting my tongue, trying not to explode into an unreasonable diatribe because something is not being done exactly my way. The only thing that is not bugging me is Finn himself; he's beyond reproach and blame. He even pooped all over the leetly blankey I knitted as well as his new "I Love My Daddy" sleeper, and I was pleased to take them home and soak them. Babies are supposed to poop on everything. He's a real baby. I have plenty of time to be sick of that sort of crap in the future.

I have my moments when I am feeling fine, but those are bright and shiny minutes until something trips my trigger and I am back in the frustration fog again. It's the usual American Litany of Woe: there's not enough time in the day, I'm too busy, It's too hard. Oh, woe is me! I am having a harder time shifting my focus and creating that zen of which I spoke. What's really so bad?

Let's have that talk with ourselves, shall we?

Special Care is in a huge hospital that is more labyrinthine and just getting there and getting in takes up even more precious time.

But Special Care is one step closer to home, and it also means that the boy is continuing to grow stronger.

There are too many things to do before he gets home and too little time.

Too bad. Those things have to be done and they will get done. Make a list and take it one item at a time. He needs a pediatrician? Look into the list the Dr. gave you, and choose one. Then call the insurance company. And check it off the list. Move on to the next thing.

The house is a mess, and there's no time to clean it.

See above. It has to be clean, so it will be clean. One thing at a time.

I need to be at the hospital more for boob training, and I am hardly at my desk as it is.

Work it out. That's all there is to it. You need to manage the time you have until he comes home and you have time off from the work part for awhile. No one can breastfeed, pump, and work for you. Someone will have to take over some of the other things. Get the list out. Delegate. In the mornings, get up right away, pump, eat breakfast, groom, and leave the house, even if you are heading out alone.

There. I feel better. There are more gripes, but at the moment, I can't even remember them. Just admitting that I am hitting a wall, at my wits' end, tearing my hair out--choose your hyperbole--helps me to accept it and breathe. Don't worry, those gripes will come to me the next time someone makes an idiot move on the road or Pete changes a diaper the wrong way (see: not my way).

Right now, The Bunker is calling. Time to pump.