You know when you're driving your car and the gas light comes on-- and every mile more that you drive you feel like you can make it just a little farther, just a little bit longer... so you push it to the limit-- but you've gotta give up or you'll be stranded on the side of the road?
That was me this past week. Except not with my car. With myself.
I finally reached my limit. The interrupted sleep (waking up literally every 2-3 hours for either the baby or Lucca), balancing work during the day and keeping everyone entertained and happy, putting dinner on the table, trying to maintain my sanity. My tank just ran out.
Let me explain at what point I finally reached my limit...
This past weekend I drove down to help my mom with my sister's kids (while she was on her own mommy-mental-vacay). On the way back, 15 minutes into our car ride on I-95, Lucca exclaimed that he had to go potty. It was so urgent, and of course (which now I feel bad for) my first initial response was, "What!? We just left the house. And you already went potty!"
But he was right. Because what I saw from my rear-view mirror was barf. And a lot of it. Just spewing out of his mouth like a fountain.
OH. MY. GOD.
I got off at the closest exit, pulled over into a hotel parking lot, and was terrified to see my son with vomit covering the back of my seat, the front of his clothes, lodged into the buckles and straps and dripping down his car seat.
I literally just stood there and didn't know what to handle first. I carefully unbuckled him and lifted him out of his seat and onto the ground. I started stripping his clothes off, shaking off the puke onto the ground. "DONT GET IT ON MY FACE!" I tried so hard to roll up his shirt before pulling it over him, but alas, it smeared across his forehead. My poor child was standing in a parking lot in 50 degree weather in his Mickey Mouse undies like a mannequin while I tried to wipe him down with baby wipes.
But then panic began to set in, because as I was pulling out more and more wipes to clean him off, I realized I only had about 20 left in the pack and I still had to somehow manage to clean off his seat. I dressed him again in clothes from his overnight bag and put him in the front seat while I tackled the next step in this debacle. I then had to literally ration out wipes to make sure every piece of vomit was cleaned up.
This was my worst nightmare...
...That is until Leo, who has now realized that the car is no longer moving, decides to start screaming and crying at the top of his lungs.
But yes, my friends. It gets worse. While sitting in the front seat, Lucca shouts out again that he has to go potty. But instead of having to puke, he was holding his rear end for dear life. I ran to the back of my car and pulled out our portable potty seat. I threw it underneath him and I can not even begin to tell you the sounds that came from his little body.
Yep, now this is my worst nightmare.
For the next 15 minutes or so, I encouraged Lucca to "stay put and make sure it's all out" before I even attempted to get back on the road. For the most part, everything was cleaned up, and once he was finished I put him back in the carseat. I drove over to the closest gas station and dropped off a big ol' bag of puke and diarrhea and thought to myself "I'm so sorry for the person who must clean this trash can" and then, "This would never happen to Greg".
The rest of the drive home was quiet without anymore surprises. The boys both fell back asleep, but my car smelled like death and I've never wanted to be home so bad in my life. When we pulled into the driveway, they woke back up and I just wished I had a pause button at that very moment. I just needed a friggin' minute to get my shit together before I pushed on through for the rest of the afternoon.
The remainder of the week we dealt with on again off again tummy troubles, the usual sleepless nights, Lucca coming back into our bed at 4 am (stupid daylight savings time), and by Wednesday I was D-O-N-E. My body ached. My mind was mush. I was mentally and physically exhausted. I had to cancel a girls night--one that we'd been trying to get on the calendar for weeks, but I just couldn't do it. That night I literally blacked out on the couch at 8 p.m. and woke up the next morning not even knowing when I went to bed.
My husband could see I was drowning, and he stepped in to wake up with the boys the rest of the week. I called my mom for help, like I always do, and slowly but surely I'm returning to my normal self. The greatest gift G could ever give me was a one-night stay in a hotel room, from where I am blogging now.
Peaceful. Quiet. Perfect.
I needed this so, so much. I needed to stretch out in bed, get a full night's sleep without any cries or any feet kicked in my face. I needed to watch my own TV shows, eat my own dinner. I needed the silence. I needed to be alone.
Slowly, my tank is filling back up and I think I'll be ready to conquer another week. Because wow. Last week was a doozy. I think I've hit my quota for this month of "Crazy-shit-you-can't-make-up-because-this-is-motherhood". It can't get worse than that, right?
Tomorrow is another day...