My midwives have told me to rest. They've forbade me from child care (other than Baby D) cooking, cleaning, laundry, basically, anything other than bathing and the fine art of pillow arranging. They've made this clear to Dearest and for the most part, he's been a Draconian in enforcing this. I know you're all saying "Go with it! WTH is wrong with you? Enjoy!" Don't get me wrong, I'm all caught up on my games (the midwives are very sympathetic to those with Farmville addictions thankfully) but my house is not being run my way and the post partum hormones are trying to take over and heightening this lack of my style of order.
I have always been a big advocate of letting dad do things his way, particularly with child care and interaction. So long as the kids are intact, it's all good. I've always pooh poohed those moms who couldn't just let their hubbies be, but I think deep down inside, I'm one of them. Just like how alcohol lowers your inhibitions to make you go dancing, drunk calling or God knows what else, my hormones are releasing my inner control freak.
I actually started crying yesterday because the kitchen was too messy, distraught, I could barely eat. Today, I wanted to jump through the window because Dearest wasn't driving the way I wanted him to. Although jumping over a giant bump in the road, that urge to kill was completely justifiable as no amount of seat cushion could protect me from that a few days post baby delivery. I'm sneaking folding some clothes and putting them away. I employed my oldest to help me so if I were caught, and I was, I could blame it on him...and I did. Five is not too young to take a fall for mommy. I am losing my MIND not cooking, I can't sneak a dinner, and it's not that Dearest is serving frozen pizzas, it's good food, but it's not my food.
Everyone who knows me that I have a problem not doing anything for extended periods of time. I'm not a freaky can't sit still type, but if there is a job at home that needs to be done, I'm not happy until it's finished. It's true that shortly after giving birth, I was looking at the three bags of laundry that had accumulated during the process and couldn't relax until Dearest had started it. Vacations need to have down time and exploration time. I would go nuts camping and doing the same routine day in and out. Okay, maybe I am freaky. Oh God, I just discovered one of the kids released a balloon in my foyer and there is no way to get it down without taking one's life in their hands or waiting for the helium. I'm terrified of heights, so I'm going to bet you that before the helium is out, I'm going to be duct taping some broom sticks together to get it to a place where I can move it.
Okay, so hormones have removed my filter, except instead of swearing, being goofy or a number of other foibles one might have if they were drunk, I'm just experiencing a crisis of being too anal.
So reality check time. I have a great Dearest, slightly insane children, but a 5 year old who will put away laundry. A barely week old who like his brothers will nap like a champion and if all I have to suffer is not having things exactly my way, I need my head examined, right? And as a fix for my apparent addiction to control, I will fold a pile of laundry while sitting on my bed, surrounded by pillows and put them in the hamper for someone else to put away.