I'm currently in the throes of what I would like to call The Worst Week Ever.
It all started with my parents leaving. They were here for a quick 24 hours this weekend to tie up some loose ends, and I did not handle the goodbye well at all. Something about not knowing when I'll see them again and not having a support system around me. You know.
Then it became August, my least favorite month. Everything bad happens in August. Maybe not everything, but it's hard to be rational during THE HOTTEST MONTH OF THE YEAR. It feels like we're actually living in hell right now. And we all know that good things do not happen in hell.
And then I stopped sleeping again. I had a good stretch of decent sleep, but the insomnia made its inevitable debut again. I've barely been getting any sleep this week and I have been at the point where I can hardly function, which I can't even handle on a good week. Add the fact that James and I are in the middle of making some huge life decisions and are stressed out of our minds trying to figure out jobs and houses and other things and I think you can see that I'm not in a good place right now.
And then Gracie got her THIRD MOLAR. Third molar in the past month! The level of crankiness and clinginess have been in uncharted territories lately. But then throw in the fact that she stopped napping this week. Just stopped napping. Completely. She slept for 15 minutes on the way home from a playdate yesterday, but that's it. I haven't had a moment of peace ALL WEEK. This is not good for me. In fact, it's dangerous. So a sleep-deprived, teething toddler and a sleep-deprived, stressed-out mother have been cooped up together all week. It has all the makings of a disaster.
I was doing the dishes after dinner last night, talking to James about how life is so hard right now and it's constantly one thing after another. I was on the verge of tears when I cut my hand open with the blade on the blender and bled all over the clean dishes, sending me into a spiral of emotion that led to me sobbing into a bowl of watermelon on the kitchen floor.
And then there was today. Gracie fell off my bed this morning and scared me half to death. She's perfectly fine, but it took me an hour to stop shaking. Then we went to the grocery store. It's not that taking a baby to the grocery store is bad, it's just that it's the most exhausting thing I do all week. And we are anything but well-rested at the moment. Things went fine, but after several trips of carrying 10 grocery bags and a toddler on my hip around the building and up several flights of stairs in 90 degree heat, I was done.
Gracie played on the floor, building towers and reading books, while I put the food away and started making lunch. I checked on her periodically, but everything was fine, other than the fact that she had managed to get in my purse, pull my wallet out, and go through it. Instead of quickly cleaning it up like I normally would, I left it for a few more minutes. I finished making the chicken salad, thinking that FINALLY I wasn't having a truly horrible day, and then I walked out to grab Gracie.
The floor was covered in poop. Covered. Smeared. Everything in between. Her diaper had partially come undone, she had filled up her diaper about 10 times over in 2 minutes, and she was scooting around the floor, smearing it as she went. The rug, her toys, the carpet, MY WALLET. Everything. Covered. I grabbed her, holding her as far away from me as possible, and rushed her upstairs to clean her up. She screamed the entire time as if I was doing her a GREAT OFFENSE by scrubbing poop off her. The damage was so bad her romper had to be thrown out. It was the same one she got carsick on a few months ago, so I think it was cursed to begin with.
I took a deep breath and took her back downstairs to survey the damage. The more I looked, the worse it got. I put G in her high chair with lunch and called James, because if he couldn't be here to help he was at least going to hear about it. Poor guy. All he could say was "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." I was half-laughing, half-crying as I told him what happened and cleaned it up. I had grabbed the strongest cleaner I could find, thinking it would sanitize everything, until James said "Uh, Michelle, that has bleach in it." I panicked and looked back down, where I could see the beige carpet turn a pinkish-white before my eyes. And it wasn't just a small spot! It was a four foot long trail. Along with a huge chunk of our rug. All James could hear was the sound of me crying; all I could hear was the sound of our deposit vanishing.
Gracie finished eating and started fussing, so I cut up a peach for her, which is usually one of her favorite things. She threw it on the floor. I bent over to pick it up when she yanked on my hair as hard as she could. In the calmest voice I could muster considering the circumstances, I picked her up and told her she was going to go take her nap so mommy could cry in peace. And she actually fell asleep! Until 10 minutes later when two men with chainsaws started trimming bushes right outside the windows.
Throughout the ordeal, I kept reminding myself that once bedtime comes, I could curl up on the couch and drown my sorrows in a bowl of ice cream. Sometime during the fight to get her in her crib, I realized.
I forgot to buy ice cream.