Crying "IT" Out

I can remember the week after the birth of Grace, my oldest child, watching "Father of The Bride" at home and just bawling as the credits rolled. I was so thankful that I was the only one in the room as I felt so stupid. I knew it was all hormones, I'd seen the movie at least three other times. But I just needed to cry "IT" out.

With Faith I have been surprisingly even keel. Until this morning as I tried to find something appropriate and tasteful for a deacon's wife to wear on a Sunday morning. Nothing fit. NOTHING. Unless you count the same pair of jeans I have worn for 4 straight days in a row that lay in a wrinkled heap on the floor. Anything that remotely still fits is sleeveless or is a short since I was this size during the summer. The few dresses I did wear at this size during pregnancy are not suitable for nursing. And every nice shirt I put on screams, "Look at the hussy with the 2 gallon milk bar!".

So off with 3 shirts and 1 skirt into a new heap on the floor of rejected clean clothes, and on with an old battered scratchy sweater that will at least work for nursing on the fly and the 4 day, now 5 day old jeans. Meanwhile, Ken is looking very fine dressed in a nice starched shirt and dress pants.

{great}

On top of that, Grace was heading to church for the third straight Sunday in a row without her hair brushed. And because Faith immediately stops nursing once she's choked on her milk, things had timed with Faith, that I knew I'd be nursing her first thing at church. My lack of sleep is beginning to add up. And no matter how early I get up, I still feel like my hair is wet and I'm half dressed with 5 minutes before we need to jump in the car. Tell me, how DOES that happen?

And then of course there is the more personal stuff. And I'll try to say it politely: I know it has only been a couple of weeks, but I'm SO ready for my body to "heal". I'm tired of feeling like I smell like an open wound. It's hard to feel like a woman when...well...womanly things are going on.

Ken caught my foul mood and asked if I was OK. Enter and open the flood gates. In a shakey voice I proceed to regurgitate all my complaints. Knowing, KNOWING, this is my hormones talking, but at the same time feeling like I just need to find something to cry about so I'll feel better. I felt like some whiney teenager saying "I have nothing to wear!" with a closet full of clothes. Ken didn't skip a beat trying to be a supportive husband and put his hand on my shoulder asking if we needed to stop on the way home to buy some pants. No, I don't need new pants. I just need to cry that "IT" thing out. That invisible mental afterbirth.

Somebody get me a chick flick so I can cry "IT" out under the cover of sap! Curious George didn't cut it yesterday, we've gone dark in the T.V. department, and all of our Netflix selections are in transit.

Poor Ken may be left with me literally crying over spilled milk (but of course, we're OUT of milk) if I can't find an outlet fast.

Lord help us both.