Days 43, 44, and 45

Yesterday morning was the sort of morning that you would talk about and people would say “Ohhh, you couldn’t make that up”. No, you could not. And why would you, because it was horrific.

Mondays are soft play day. Now that we have entered the magic phase, this is quite a pleasurable activity for all involved, so there was no reason to assume that this day would be any different. Things started to go a teeny weeny bit downhill when we arrived and they couldn’t get my bank card to work in their machine. I decided that the only way to save face about this was to check my balance in front of all of the people and loudly tell them, to the penny, what was in my account. This did not matter though; as soft play people don’t let you in just because you show them you could afford to pay…they want you to actually pay. It’s all ok, I thought, there is a supermarket with a cash point nearby. I will act in the manner of a grown up and resourceful person and withdraw some actual cash, then come back and throw it at the soft play lady and everything will be fine.

I then tried to explain this plan to the babies. The girl baby took it pretty well but the boy one…did not.

Me (shrill and overly cheerful voice) “Come on loves, Mummy needs to go and get some pennies because my silly old card won’t work (Very loudly) EVEN THOUGH THERE IS JUST LOADS AND LOADS OF LOVELY MONEY IN THERE.”

Boy Baby “Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo. SOFT PLAAAAAAAYYYY.”

Me “Of course we are going to come back to soft play boy baby, but the lady won’t let us in without any pennies. EVEN THOUGH THERE IS OBVIOUSLY LOADS IN MY BANK ACCOUNT.”

Boy Baby “Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo. SOFT PLAAAAAAAYYYY.”

Me (Realisation dawns that the boy baby is neither able nor willing to accept any explanation as to why we have come into soft play, and left seconds later. Will have to perform a physical retreat.) “Come on boy baby, everything will be lovely” (Pick up screaming 3 year old, gesture to 4 year old to follow and decided she is absolutely my most favourite baby)

The boy babies’ screaming protests continued all of the way to the supermarket, despite the number of times and ways I tried to explain what was happening and that we would be going back to sodding soft sodding play. Finally arrived at lovely lovely supermarket and I decided that the day was about to become ace as there was a mother and baby parking space next to the actual cash machine. This is the parenting equivalent of smoking crack. Huzzahhh.

Even though I can still hear the boy baby through the closed car doors, I feel a sense of calm wash over me because I am about to make all of this better. Except I am not, because even though the cash machine can read my card and tell me my balance which I already knew to the penny…it will not give me any actual money. What the actual hell am I going to do?

It’s all ok though, because I have ace friends, who after a super quick phone call tell me that of course they will pay for us to join them at soft play, they will even stretch to a coffee and watch the babies whilst I sob/ring the bank and call them all massive knobs. I love friends.

I tell the babies we are heading back to soft play, but as I am brilliant at managing my expectations, I am not surprised when the boy baby does not listen but does a little bit more screaming instead. Everything is all ok because soon we will be at soft play, and everyone will be happy again and I will be drinking coffee.

This all plans out fairly well for approximately 8 seconds, until I hear my name screeched from the top of the very highest slide. It is the girl baby. And she has wet herself. And she is devastated. I do not claim to be in any way agile, fit or sprightly. But I climbed my big massive bum off. Twisted my body into un-body like shapes, to get to my girl who was sad. I could feel a big cry coming on. I was feeling a teeny went bit fed up of the day already, and now the boy baby was crying as I wasn’t in his immediate line of vision at all times.

The girl baby is crying and wet. The boy baby is crying. All of the parents are looking around curiously to find the mother of all of the crying children who is currently half stuck in a hole, crying herself.

When I reach the girl baby I decide it is unwise to take the quickest route down, which is down the slide. This is because she is all covered in wee. So we both head back the way we came (which FYI is much more difficult than climbing up). Finally we are down and I have cuddled her and told her over and over that it doesn’t matter and that she is ace and that she is my bestest friend. I think the end is in sight as we head off to the toilets to clean her up with the boy baby, finally reunited with me after all of that time…..closely following.

Granted I have only bought a spare outfit for the boy baby, because the girl one never needs it these days. But there are worse things than her having to wear some slightly too small boy leggings for a couple of hours. For example, I don’t know, having absolutely nothing to wear because the boy baby chooses that exact moment to do a big massive wee in his own clothes for funsies. I am literally out of all of the ideas and my actual soul is dead, but once again my super friend appears at the door with her babies’ spare leggings and socks. This is because mum friends are amazing.

Off we went back to enjoy our ruddy time at soft play, and for the most part, the babies did. But it was too late for me. It was all I could do to hold back tears and my lovely mum friends so wonderfully ignoring it made me want to fall to pieces and lie down on their lovely Mummy laps.

When we finally left, and the babies were in their seats and their CD was on the radio, I cried and I cried and I cried.

I cried because the bank wouldn’t give me any of my own money, I cried because I thought everyone was looking at me wondering why I had no money to take my babies to soft play, I cried because I have emotionally traumatised my babies by taking them in and then out of soft play. And then in again. I cried because I looked incompetent in front of all of the people. I cried because I looked ridiculous climbing the soft play. I cried because my heart hurt for my girl baby who had wet herself. I cried because I am worried she is poorly. I cried because I had to leave the boy baby to help her, and I cried because I shouted when he wet himself after I had just asked him if he needed the toilet. I cried with guilt, worry and regret. I cried because I didn’t take enough spare clothes and I was just downright failing at all of life. I cried because I had to ask for help. I cried because I felt so, so sad.

When I started writing my blog, I wanted to be completely honest about all of the things. Or else, what was the point. But I suppose I started writing it when I was in a healthier place and did not truly consider having to be honest about how I felt when I wasn’t. But here we are, and I’m going to carry on being honest because I’m trying really hard to remember that I’m not alone in any of this.

I am furious that I am feeling poorly again. Completely and utterly furious, and also really frightened. This is because I am doing all of the things that I can to stay well, and if I can still feel poorly despite all of this then it feels there is nothing else to do but accept it.

I feel pathetic and tiresome and like I am a burden to everyone who loves me. And I am not saying any of this for them to disagree or because they have ever been anything but wonderful. I am saying it because it is true and maybe someone else can relate and know that they aren’t alone in feeling that way either. Depression is absolutely a big massive knob.

However. I know that I will feel better again. Even if I don’t feel it right now or know how it will happen. I also know that the very fact I am writing this means that something is different because when I have been poorly before I would not have had this in me. I am proud. I am proud that I have not yet had a lovely drink. I am proud that I am still doing that stupid vapey thing and not smoking. I am proud that sometimes, I ask for help.

I know that I put a huge amount of pressure on myself to be a good Mum. This is all that I want to be in all of the world. And ironically (ruddy irony) it is that that probably makes me question my ability and capacity to do absolutely anything at all well. I have created an expectation of myself that is not only completely unrealistic but also pretty damaging.

My well self, knows that when I am well, nothing is really any different at all. Mornings like yesterday would still happen (You actually couldn’t make it up), and I am not saying that I wouldn’t be a teeny weeny bit stressed because, well come on. But I would probably cry less. I would probably talk to my lovely mum friends, and I wouldn’t feel physically paralysed by all of the awful feelings inside of me. Depression doesn’t necessarily change anything. But it absolutely changes how you feel about it.

I don’t want to be a big whingy boo hoo, because that’s actually not at all who I am. But in the interest of honesty I thought I’d be honest about where I am right this moment.

I’m still taking all of the lovely drugs and if things don’t improve I will go back to my doctor and sob at him again. He likes it when I do this. I am telling my mum, my friends, HH that I am struggling. I hate to admit that, but I have hidden it before and it all went really really wrong. I am prioritising the most important things and I am doing the best that I can do with others. And this afternoon I have an appointment with my best friend the therapist which I am super excited about.

Everything is going to be ok.

Today I am grateful for the following*;

1 – Absolutely all of the lovely people that read my ramblings

2 – Friends who buy me coffee

3 – Trainers

Toria x

*It is a given that I am absolutely always grateful for all of the coffee.

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