Bodily Functions, Whether I Like It Or Not

I feel like I'm at the end of my rope.

Between furloughs and no pay raises for two years, and with the baby coming, I have stopped taking online writing courses.

I haven't slept well since September. I currently have bronchitis and am getting four or five hours of sleep a night, well below what I need to feel sane. I have been suffering from depression. I have been cringing when I look in the mirror, because of the weight I've gained in the past three months. Between sinus infections and bronchitis, I haven't consistently exercised in three weeks.

With no writing goals my creative outlets are narrowed. I refuse to look into medication for my depression because it feels like a capitulation, and I don't want to give in, although if therapy continues to fail I will take medication rather than enter post-partum depression. I feel less like myself than I ever have.

There are ludicrous, hilarious, sometimes beautiful moments juxtaposed to all of this.

For example, last weekend I took The Kid to a birthday party at an indoor playground and he peed and pooped all over the play equipment. He rarely has accidents, so I did not have any extra clothes for him. He was very upset and I held him and rushed him to the bathroom where I cleaned him up. He wanted me to leave him there, go home, and get extra clothes for him. He did not want to stop playing. Another mother offered me her extra clothes - she had a little girl, so they were pink pants.

Me: "It's either your dirty jeans or these pants."
The Kid: "I don't like the color! Those are girl's pants!"
Me: "Well, you can't play naked."
The Kid: "You go home. Get me clean pants. I stay here, wait for you."
Me: "I can't leave you here alone."
The Kid: "You go home."
Me: "Which ones? The dirty ones or the pink ones?"
The Kid: "I don't like those girl pants!"

We are in a restroom stall where other mothers can hear us. Both of us are getting increasingly upset at this point, and he is crying, and I'm about to cry. I take his little bare-butt body in my arms, and I hold him. He instantly relaxes and his breathing becomes even, calm. I wrap his jacket around his waist, and we go home. I ignore offers of birthday cake. At that point, I really don't want to sit with a naked kid and eat birthday cake, especially when I'm about to cry.

I was embarrassed that my son had an accident, embarrassed that I wasn't prepared with clean extra clothes, embarrassed that I couldn't get him to wear the clean pants. But also, proud of him that he can assert himself: style evidently comes before practical considerations. And so grateful that I can comfort him and choose to accept him as he is, and convey that to him, and make him feel loved no matter what.

And this bronchitis. Because I am seven months pregnant, when I cough or sneeze, I pee. Involuntarily. Cough, cough, cough. Pee, pee, pee. Great huge jets of it, even though I go to the bathroom every five minutes to keep my bladder empty. High barking coughs. Flooded pants. Maybe it's because I'm at the end of my rope, or maybe I'm just going crazy enough to find this funny, but it makes me laugh every time it happens.

The Old Man is doing extra laundry just to keep up with the two of us.