So here it is. There have been a few recent days when I felt so utterly shitty, so nauseous and constipated and exhausted and overworked by clients and toddlers and dogs, that I just broke down. Took shots at KB. Just cried. Cried to KB. I admitted to him that on those days, I wonder if we made a mistake, if we (I) can't handle being pregnant again and worse than that, can't handle raising two kids. I don't feel that way deep down, but the physical misery can be all-consuming and fuck with your head and your heart. I needed to hear that, despite his shared worry about how we will make this all work, it's going to be okay. And so he told me that. It's going to be okay. Sometimes you just need to hear it.
One of the things that I lamented in my tearful tirades was the fact that, despite having KB's family close by, we don't really get any help. Instead, it feels more like we get additional expectations piled on us, like it's OUR responsibility in whole to make sure THEY get what THEY need from US. Outside of KB's mom bringing us food for the first week or so after we brought Jackson home (which was much appreciated, lest you think I'm a completely ungrateful sow), there have been no offers to do anything truly useful. The only exception is her (thankfully, waning) requests to babysit (I just typed babyshit, FYI) which have always included her expectation that we take Jackson to her completely un-baby-proofed stair- and fireplace-filled house when SHE has availability. I would've loved it if she had ever volunteered to come over to our house and watch him long enough for me to take a shower or run to the store, or even come with me, but that was never mentioned because it didn't suit her needs. She complains about the drive to our suburban house being horrible but has no problem hitting the freeway to downtown Detroit (a real paradise, as you can imagine) to join her friends at the casino. And KB's over-80-year-old aunt who is hard of hearing and has increasingly creaky bones has expressed disappointment over not being allowed to babysit, but come on. KB's sister has offered but it's a hollow gesture only because her husband travels a lot, leaving her to single parent a very busy 8-year-old. She has no time to actually make good on the offer. None of them has offered to change a diaper. None of them has offered to stop by and play with Jackson so I could take a nap/take a shower/do laundry/etc. I know for my part I absolutely give off an I'll-do-it-myself vibe, but that's mainly because I just can't appreciate the "offers" of "help" that come with specific strings attached. In my mind, if you really want to help then do what is needed, not whatever you personally want at my expense.
So anyway, the thought of our family piling on even more expectation that we'll accommodate their schedules and their needs to cart around TWO kids is mindfucking me. In my search for a new car, I've tossed around the idea of whether we need 3rd-row seating because KB's elderly aunt expects us to drive her to every family event (though she's perfectly capable of driving herself to church and weekly lunch with her friends). It's super great because Jackson will normally catch an afternoon nap in the car when we're out running errands, but KB's aunt insists on chatting for the whole drive in her hard-of-hearing voice, so we get no nap and a cranky toddler afterwards every time. And we've already begun discussing how we will care for Jackson while I'm in the hospital after labor with baby #2, since it's hard to imagine anyone in KB's family accommodating OUR needs, especially on short notice. We may end up hiring a nanny to stay with Jackson if we're in the hospital over the weekend. And then we have to lie to KB's mom about stuff like that because, despite the nonsense of it, her feelings get hurt. Blargh.
We're probably going to engage in The Telling in the next several weeks, maybe on Mother's Day. I view it as something on a checklist. I'm in survival mode right now. Some days are better than others, but pregnancy is just not kind to me. It's a means to an end. And that fact that people who I wish could just offer genuine help seem to have their own agenda-in-a-bubble approach completely annoys me.
Maybe I should just chalk it all up to hormones.