I'm wondering if I'll ever be able to sit down again.
Having given birth by caesarean, this wonder is not actually due to stitches in regions one isn't usually supposed to be stitched, but instead only because of the need to time everything I do around Rukai maintenance.
Although being gestational diabetic gave me a jump start on running my life around mealtimes (bloody strange blessing in disguise, let me tell you) it remains a bit tricky when you are combination feeding bubba. So a bottle every three hours or so is followed by an hour dealing with expressing what breast milk I can and time between is slim at best.
(Now for the mathematics, and because I am absolutely shite with numbers this is a small victory - celebrate with me or look away now!)
So every three hours we go: settle thrashing baby / feed baby / burp baby / change very full and leaking nappy / oops-baby-just-put-foot-inside-nappy-clean-shit-off-baby / change-baby's-shit-covered-clothes-while-trying-to-avoid-getting-more-shit-on-baby / oops-got-more-shit-on-baby-clean-him-off-again during every feed, figure it takes at least 90 minutes start to finish. Followed by an hour to pump.
I may just have to start dressing him in bin bags and hosing him down every time I change him. I'd use the bath but he'd probably shit in that too if timed anywhere near a feed. This kid is a MACHINE. I may have predicted this all when they said he pooed meconium in the womb and wee'd when they only had him pulled halfway out. A machine, I tell you.
Anyway, that essentially leaves me a mere 30 minutes every three hours to shower / eat / brush teeth / wash bottles / sterilize bottles / play with baby / go shopping / do laundry / exercise / wee / take baby to appointments / answer Skype / curse Skype / burn shit stained clothes / post here / anything else that may represent normal life.
Ah, but this IS normal life now. Dandy! Super!
Add to the above all the recent rain, insert 'look around house for one of ten brollies we own and find none' and 'wipe rain off pram before parking in corner' and 'pick myself up out of the corner and just leave the pram there' and 'change clothes because none of the brollies revealed themselves and now I'm fricking soaked'.
What's that down to then? Eight minutes every three hours? Four? If that's the case, I don't think I can ever go back to work. That is, unless they want a gummy grinning little squidgy boy on the payroll. Although admittedly I don't know that there is a job opening for 'Chief Crapping Officer' though he'd be a shoe in if there were.
I'd write more but my four minutes are up. Must dash.