Sleep depraved shambles

Here we are at week 10 and all still alive although my nipples are a shadow of their former selves.

Chicken is still a very good baby but juggling her needs with those of the Monkey is challenging. If I don't get them to synchronize their day naps I don't get a second to myself and that's exhausting and frustrating.

Breastfeeding is still so painful sometimes that I cry at the prospect of the next feed. I could be singlehandedly bankrolling the local chemist with my custom - thanks to my 2nd bout of mastitis I've bought more antibiotics there and have been hiring a breast pump to give my poor norks a rest.

I know that I should really give up but I still can't admit defeat just yet. This may be my last child and I really want to enjoy the breast feeding experience eventually. So I persist but it's got to the point where I don't know how much pain I should tolerate, my pain threshold is completely confused.

This week I ventured out for the first time with both kiddies sans car. Firstly I had Chicken in the ergo baby carrier and convinced Monkey to get in the new stroller. We only went to the park but that was an achievement since Monkey kept asking to get out and walk. I don't trust him to hold my hand and not run off into dangerous situations so I need him to be in the stroller. It was good to get out and wear him out doing something fun, plus I chatted to some other mums there.

I don't know if I looked quite as desperately harried, sleep-deprived, and adult-company-starved as I feel, but they were both mums of more than one, so hopefully they understood what it's like to leave the house without brushing your hair or even looking in the mirror. 

I continue to mourn the loss of my personal grooming. My hair is this ridiculously long, matted mane that I probably would have pined for once upon a time. It is so long through accident not design, I have not had the time or opportunity (nor the cash) to go to a hairdresser for so long. But it seems to just hang from my head like this big dead thing that gets knotty and becomes just another chore to detangle and to me it represents a lack of personal style. I am about 8 kgs overweight and that is not baby-fat, it's icecream-and-cake fat! I have been eating pretty badly since the birth and every day I think I'll start the diet tomorrow, but my will-power is so weakened by tiredness. I need energy boosts and they don't come easier than a sugar-hit! I try to remind myself what I'd say to any one of my friends in the same situation - be kind to yourself, appreciate the amazing feats your body has achieved, don't stress etc. But it's a total double-standard, I am my own worst critic and although I know I shouldn't compare myself to other people I find myself looking at other mums of babies and wondering how they look so much thinner and more composed - some of them even wear make-up!!! 

I want to set my daughter (and son of course) the example of self-love, so I repeat my mantra - enjoy life, there will always be tomorrow to diet! 

The scariest thing about parenthood I have decided is how much more vulnerable my heart is. I feel terrified at the thought of something happening to any of my beloved family members, husby included, and life seems so much more precious now. The weight of my responsibility to not only protect them from harm, but to stay healthy so that I can, adds to the stress of the daily grind.