The State of Things

So this happened:

A text conversation from the bathroom at church earlier this evening.

I haven't updated in forever. At the moment I am quite concerned that sweet little lady, who is for the moment content in a vibrating chair, will cry any second and the five minutes I am hoping for to crank this out will be *poof* gone.

So church: we got out the door AT 4pm...which is when church starts. So we were a half hour late, there was no parking left (because family parking--aka close parking--is always filled by childless couples and or young singles and many of them I know for a fact aren't new visitors or unbelievers), Roger completely lost it when we checked him into children's ministry, there was nowhere to sit and, while I do appreciate sweet-hearted servants, I always feel awkward when the usher goes to find us seating by asking someone else to move in toward the middle while we're the jerks who were late.

I let Jason get settled with Juliet while I went to pee (because all of that happened while I needed to go quite badly...and let's just say that no amount of Kegels helps re: bladder control when you're 7 weeks out from having two children 19 months apart) and, completely not expecting it, when I stepped into the bathroom the tears were smarting my eyes and the second I got into the farthest corner stall I just simply lost it.

Here's the deal: being a mama of two tinies is horribly difficult. Everything is hard. There's incessant guilt and pressure around every corner. Juliet needs to be held CONSTANTLY (not to mention she's nursing at least 40-50% of my waking hours, not kidding) and while I truly do love getting to snuggle it's also hard that I can't get a single thing done. A great week is one in which I shower more than twice (not exaggerating) and keep my kids fed, clothed, in diapers changed frequently enough that they don't get a rash, and well napped so they don't completely lose it. I don't sleep much, and cooking? Cleaning? Me eating something other than a granola bar? Ha.

And then...well, I'm going to carefully guard what I say about how I feel in my body. But I will just be honest: I thought I'd never see 300 pounds again. I was hovering around 303-306 just before going into the hospital to have Juliet, and was excited when I got home, fully expecting to be around 285. Nope. More like 296. And now somehow I'm hovering between 301-303. Talk about depressing. Only one pair of non-yoga pants fits, I refuse to buy more clothes at this size, and I feel all of the awfulness mentally, physically, spiritually, and emotionally that comes with gaining weight. Add in the hormones and not sleeping and the fact that I literally YEARN to exercise and it just sucks.

The other day I actually envied my pre-Roger self ,the one who was 50 pounds lighter and who went to the gym 3-4 times a week for 2-3 hours. And just that brief moment of somewhat resenting the existence of my children sent me into a guilt spin unlike any I've experienced before.

Yet, realistically, I just don't know how to fit in exercise. And I keep trying to eat healthy but end up either not eating at all or shoving in something like a granola bar which, while not awful, has sugar and lots of carbs. My body thrives on low carb, high protein and granola bars just aren't cutting it. And I did make some wonderfully healthy and delicious salads that simply had to be dumped into a bowl with some (greek yogurt based) ranch dressing tossed on top. I ate three, gave one to Jason, and had to dump two out that were rotten. *sigh*

I'm not trying to complain. But I also can't clean it up. The truth is, we're feeding Juliet a bottle of expressed milk once a day because, minus many details, I'm not getting enough sleep and post-partum me with not enough sleep deeply, deeply struggles with heavy suicidal...trances. Like the only way I can bear to be awake when awoken in the middle of the night to feed is to fixate on how I would kill myself if only I had the courage. And though I know better and have prayed and been prayed for by Jason, I don't even remember Jesus exists when that happens. It's embarrassing because I know Jesus is bigger even though there's legit spiritual warfare going on.

But I feel like I should know better.

Roger has started to enter what many call "the terrible twos" and we're starting to have hitting and defiance and temper tantrums and I feel like it's my fault, like I'm failing him as a mother.

Every. Single. Time. Juliet cries I hate myself and feel panicked to make it stop. And as long as she's fed, changed, and well slept then she doesn't cry, which makes the times she does cry worse.

Some sweet friends wrote guest posts for me to schedule to go up during the inevitable down time. I sure haven't gotten them up. I feel awful about that. I will post them eventually, but I feel like a jerk anyway.

Because of bed rest I never wrote thank you cards for gifts and showers and such. Doing them now? HA! Have tried. Not happening. Guilt? HEAVY.

I wrote Juliet's birth story on my phone just after she was born and it's a saved draft that's never been posted because I need time to sort through pics I put on my computer that are no longer on my phone (I think this is my fourth time to even open my laptop since she was born 7.5 weeks ago) and do the birth story post some justice and...yeah. Not happening.

I feel fat and ugly and gross and unworthy of life. It's just feelings, but it sucks.

I have a wonderful savior. Beautiful children who steal my heart over and over again every day. Truly the best husband I could even dream up (though the sleep deprivation leads to more bickering which makes us both ache). But this is so incredibly hard, harder than I could have thought though I really tried to prepare for it being incredibly hard. I can't count how many times I have burst into tears because LITERALLY taking 30 seconds to quickly pee in the middle of the day because both kids were screaming their heads off. Thirty seconds...let alone trying to cook or clean or eat healthier meals or exercise or get out of the house.

This won't last forever. But I feel it would be a waste to not be real about how hard it is. I see so many women and assume they have it all together. Maybe they do. But sister, if you don't, you are not alone. I won't give you Jesus-cheese. I will say that the only thing he has said to me is, "Daughter, I love you. You are weary and the only change in your circumstances would be tragedy you don't prefer [if we didn't have Juliet I'd get plenty of sleep and time, but that's clearly not what I want] but in me, in the midst of this terrible difficulty, is rest. I am rest. I love you and I am your sufficiency and I am your rest."

No matter how many times I reject him or forget, he reminds me and loves me again and again. Am I better? No. But he is here and this is my story and I pray I endure well and he'll bless others via my honesty.

No time to edit. But I'm getting over myself and literally not cleaning it up...figuratively, too, since I won't pretend things are better than they really are. I need this honesty for myself as much as I pray it blesses others.

I hope it's less than 8 weeks before I get a chance to post again. I really, really miss this.

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