Throwing the baby out with the bath water …

I did this post back in June for http://www.moomie.co.za and I must confess to feeling quite proud of this piece.  I like the ones that are real and honest, and this was one of those.

I totally forgot about the post, and then this morning Nayeela asked me for a copy, so thanks Nayeela for reminding me about this post.  I hope those who have read it on moomie will forgive me and not mind re-reading it.

I’ve often wondered why we do not tell new moms about the hell that follows once they arrive home with their new baby.

There seems to be this unwritten law that we should not scare them too much.  Or possibly it is that they will not believe it until it starts to happen to them.  Of late I have started to believe the latter.

The hell I am referring to is the emotional trauma and the screaming that you and your partner/husband/supplier of sperm/supporter of pregnancy/nearest and dearest will go through around week six to eight of your new baby being home.

It might start on day one, it might not start for several weeks, but it will start (insert Dr Evil’s laugh here).

Pregnancy is much like your honeymoon. The two of you are aglow with the wonders of what your loins have done. You have affirmed your lineage will continue. Your partner is elated that his sperm has proved to be virile, you are a bask in the glow of pregnancy.

You feel that you have single-handedly saved the entire human race.  Here in your uterus sits the off-spring that could find a cure of cancer or at the very least a system for not losing the remote control on the couch.

Ah it is glorious heady stuff.  You are invincible, you are pregnant.

Your energies are focused on the birth of the baby.  Where partner will stand, who will hold the camera, whether you will ask for some homeopathic meds or sell you soul for one prick of the anesthetist’s epidural needle.   From about month five every waking (and sleeping moment) is  consumed with all this planning.

You have various scenarios in your mind, but the one that stands out for you, is that picture of you, the picture of the perfect you.  You, still wearing mascara, and a touch of lip-gloss, cuddling your bundle, while your partner stares at you longing as if you are the original mother mary.

Intoxicating  days these.

You survive child-birth.  You survive the medical staff and you make it home.  You are smiling and coo’ing and everyone has agreed that this is the sweetest baby ever to bless the earth.

You and your partner are so pleased with yourselves right now.  You might even cure leprosy later on in the afternoon, nothing is beyond you right now.

The visitors go home, the medication and euphoria starts to wear off.  You are starting to ache.

You really love your baby, but have deciced that you no longer love your baby between 2 and 6am.  You are sleep deprived, your nipples feel like you have been cast in a low-budget porn movie, you are not feeling your best as you have been in your bathrobe since last Monday.

Brushing your teeth has become the highlight of your day – you do not even try to floss, as really there is not enough time and this often requires two hands, which you seldom have the luxury of right now.

Partner kisses you on the forehead and skips off to work.  At some point you stand there – usually in the middle of the kitchen, still in your grubby bathrobe, and ask yourself  “What exactly happened here … this is not how I pictured it…and why is that shmuck not with me in this?”

You can’t say it out loud as the baby has finally fallen asleep and you need to sort of rock him to-and-fro, to-and-fro or he is going to start screaming again, but you think it.  Yes, you think it, and think it and think it.

You now glance over at the kitchen clock and start counting the hours down for husband (you have dropped the dear part) to come home.  By the time he arrives home, you pretty much shove the baby into his arms, scream at him about being late.

Then scream at him about something unrelated and stomp off in a furore.  You are waiting for baby to start crying, because now husband can get an earful of what you have had to put up with all day …

But nothing … you listen … and there is nothing.  So you sneak quietly down to the lounge … and there he is … baby propped on his shoulder … not a care in the world … he has a beer in the other hand and he is watching Super Sport … and looks at you like: “ This isn’t hard, what are you complaining about!”

This is where the cracks start.

Late at night as you wake to go and feed the baby you look over at your partner who is fast asleep and you wonder if you can stab him the shoulder with a fork!  You know you can, but you wonder if you can do deep tissue damage with just one fork stab, or whether you will need to do it numerous times.

Partner does not move while you feed, burp, and quiet baby.  You shlepp down the passage, put baby down and return to bed.  Right now the warm-even breathing of your partner is making you so angry you want to smother him.  Instead you roll over, being sure to jab him with your elbow in his back and then you eventually doze off.  Only to be awoken 5 minutes later by baby who needs to feed…..

You repeat the cycle, each time hating your partner for the fact that he has undisturbed sleep.

Next morning you wake up and he is getting ready for work.  He smiles at you, all happy, as if he has let you sleep in – never mind that in total since 1am, you have had about 45 minutes sleep.  He gets his clean clothes on, kisses you on the forehead (because you have not brushed your teeth) and goes off to work.

And now your mild dislike has turned to hate.

It is actually his fault that this has all happened, and now he gets to go to work, talk to adults, surf Facebook and drink hot cups of coffee all day.  You hate him for every hour he is away.  The problem is when he drags his sorry arse in the door after work, you hate him for every hour he is home as well.

He has no idea what you go through, he does not realise that you have been crying for 6 hour straight.  He has no idea that you are so exhausted right now, you would swap places with a vagrant to get some sleep.

He has no idea that what is happening to you now does not gel with the picture you had in your head of this entire process. You love your baby – but right now, you really do not love being with him.

The right thing to say is that “this is the best thing in the world…” but maybe it isn’t.  Maybe it is really hard and maybe you are really struggling.  The thing you can’t understand is that no one has really told you how difficult it is going to be, and now you are really struggling.

Your partner does not understand, actually he has no clue what is going on. You are angry and upset and the person who is going to take the brunt of it is the poor sap who comes whistling through the front door at about 17h30 each day.

You start fighting with him because he goes to work.  You fight with him because he is at work.  You fight with him because he is at home.  You fight with him because he can’t change the baby the way you want him to do it.   You fight with him because he does not know which babygrower to use … well basically you fight with him because he exists (don’t even start with me about the fact that he has to breath so damn loud!).

Husband is starting to wonder if this having a baby was such a good idea, and at some point will make a statement of the sort.

This will be a bit like throwing gasoline on a fire, and you will unfortunately start saying some things you wish you had not said.  He is so annoyed as he does not know his wife anymore, and instead has this hormone soaked creature to deal with, so he will retaliate with something else, and you will have a come back which is akin to kicking him in the gonads.

And from there the situation will turn ugly.

But believe it or not  ….  you eventually start to get saner and realise that you (and him) are living through what feels like the apocalypse.  It does take a while before you realise that you and your partner are actually in this together.  You need to rely and lean on each other to get through this, rather than taking pot shots at each other as you run across the minefield.

You also start to wonder “why do couples who are in distress think having a baby is going to bring them closer?” when good sense tells us that a baby is the most strain you can subject on a relationship.

Don’t worry I wonder the same thing.

When my friends, who are young and in-love, have baby-showers I really want to give them vouchers for sessions of couple counseling.  Unfortunately decorum gets the better of me, and I buy them bibs and baby shoes like everyone else, and try not make them feel less invincible than they do right then.

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Showdown at O.K. Corral

Okay so that was a bit of a hard weekend.

On Saturday night Kennith and I had a huge argument – a real doozy.

We really do not fight often, but when we do it is a bit of a screamer. I get angry really quickly and fight from an emotional base. Kennith tends to remain a bit more logical and likes to have a pie chart with a laser pointer when he fights – the boy likes to put up a good argument with visuals.

Any the who, there we were having a big old argument, all good judgment had left, all logic had abandoned us. I had started the argument, because I had had a total loss of humour failure – total, gone, missing in action stuff. It had been boiling under for just over a week.

The weekend before I had been left alone for the weekend as Kennith had quite a bit on. To add to the stress Isabelle was suicidal-ill. She was ill, I was suicidal. We also had house guests.

Kennith had not really weighed this all up and decided to invite 10+ people over on Friday for a braai thing, and then waltzed off without making any effort to clean up.

I have been blessed with many coping mechanisms, but the one thing that actually makes it impossible for me to cope is a dirty house. Any façade I had of keeping it together crumbles when I see unmade beds and unwashed dishes. If you throw a few towels on the floor, and a number two floating in the bowel because children cannot flush, it is like taking a long stick and poking it in a bull’s eye.

Last weekend was especially challenging to say the least. I came into this week still shaking a little and clutching at my bleeding soul. However the week progressed nicely as it does until I realized that I was facing a long weekend.

Like all other un-productive employees I share a certain joy of long weekends. However as a mom with kids, I get a little scared as I realize that my right-hand Robin to my Batman is going to also be away. (My maid is going to be on leave, for you who are not picking up on my cryptic message method.)

I started to get a slight twitch in my left eye at the thought of this weekend unfolding and knowing what a tip my home was going to descend to. Problem is that I had not had sufficient healing time from the trauma I had experienced last weekend. I was definitely showing symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder.

To cut a long story short, Kennith had been offered tickets to the rugby game on Saturday night. Eye really started to twitch now.

I knew he was going to go and I started to feel really angry that again I was going to be left with all the shit, while he happily skipped off.

I really tried to put on my big girl panties and suck it up. Just go with the flow, be a trooper, say “no problem!” when inside I was seething.

I said “no problem…..” I may or may not have managed a smile on my face while saying it.

Saturday came around and Kennith decided to use all his lavatorial knowledge to fix our toilet. This resulted in him sitting up close and personal with said latrine and taking it apart. “What a handy bloke you have around.”– you may say. It was difficult to really “feel the love” for the toilet being repaired as I was making beds, tidying up and trying to prevent our home slipping in to nuclear disaster. I also had not slept on Thursday night, so I was feeling pretty tired, which did not help.

Hours of toilet repair later, Kennith called a plumber, then sat and played computer games in the room while plumber was there “for security reasons.”

Kennith then went to rugby.  I got really annoyed that he had not helped tidy up, do dishes, empty the nappy overflowing dustbin prior to him skipping out of the house with his mates to have a few beers and watch the game.

I spent the balance of the afternoon and the evening swearing under my breath, and cursing the day he was born – as you do!

Unfortunately for Kennith’s sake, he came home.

He further decided to push the envelope on this and invited friends in for drinks. Not thrilled, but attempted to look mildly pleased and hospitable – was I feeling any love right then, fek no.

Kennith has been making this rather annoying comment regarding my drinking wine. Every time we unscrew/un cork something the says “You are just going to quaff this, you really do not appreciate it.” – or something of that nature.

I have been smiling like an idiot, and nodding in humour, but it has been grinding me so much that I want to scream. But Emily Post teaches one to smile in tense social situations.

As luck would have it, I had not been reading Emily Post that day – I had been doing dishes, and cleaning up – so when Kennith made his now-not-original-and-now-so-annoying little comments, I really lost sight of the entire conversation and just went off pop.

It was not dissimiliar to the little Dutch girl who pulled their finger out of the dyke. Catastrophic disaster and huge loss of life.

That is pretty much how the fight got started. I lost my rag and had an absolute shit-fit – totally

Unfortunately Kennith could not plug in his Powerpoint presentation fast enough, so instead decided to retaliate with being mean. It was really one of those ones where you go to sleep cross, and wake up exhausted but still really angry.

Ah, good times…

Hello Everybody ….

Sometimes I feel sorry for Kennith, he never knows what he is coming home to.  The thing that I admire about him is he thinks on his feet and does not show fear (much) in the face of a potential massacre.

I try not to lose control at home with the kids – for me it a very slippery road to drinking two bottles of wine and screaming profanity at the neighbours, so I do attempt to contain myself, we live in a reasonably good neighbourhood and all.

I usually try to keep a “happy disposition” thing going.  It is a total farce, but I give it a go none the less.  I dash from work to fetch the kids, and the truth be told I am quite excited about seeing them.  Each day I drive the distance from my office to fetch Connor and Georgia.  I try to put on my happy face and really want to give them the impression that they are dealing with a competent mother who may get voted on to the PTA.

Georgia is usually an easy pick up.  She is such a happy little soul, that when I fetch her she is all love and hugs and dirty pants.  She hops in to the car and off we go.  There might be a small wobbly about her eating her lunch in the car 45 minutes before dinner, but we have that fairly contained.

Connor however is like dealing with a surly teenager and he is only 8 years old.  I go in to school bracing myself, as it can be a little challenging (she says politely.)

He will either be chipped off that I arrived too early, or too late – I can never quite work out the correct timing that coincides with his need to play with his mates.  So we get in the car, there may or may not be sulking at this stage.

The drive home is an exercise is patience and good motherhood skills that I fail daily.  It will usually start with Connor asking to do something that he knows I am going to say no to “Mom can I fly my kite in the electrical storm?” “Mom, can I please watch WWF on television naked?” “Mom, I know it is 8 degrees outside, but may I please swim?” “Mom, I know there is a cooked meal at home waiting for us, but can we stop at McDonald’s” 

Unfortunately what ever I say no to is actually irrelevant, because it will just pitch him in to the next request which he knows I will so no to – which leads to the negotiating segment of our little road show. 

By the time I pull into the garage, I have Connor sulking or in full-fledged crying.  Georgia may or may not be crying – by the time we get home it is all a bit of a catastrophe, and we do not actually get out of the car as much as we fall out of the car in various stages of anger and frustration.

Getting kids in the house and to sit down for dinner has its own set of challenges.  A side effect of the fighting is that by now I have probably banned television and am so desperate for a large glass of wine and a lie down, that I just want to kill.  Isabelle is tetchy because I am tetchy – she refuses to be put down so she is firmly implanted on my hip.  I am trying to warm a bottle for her while I am making wild gestures in the air with my free hand (as you do when you are trying to threaten children to finish their food or else.)

I am watching the clock tick by as each minute brings me closer to getting this lot into bed and having a moment for my head to stop ringing.  Usually at about this point Kennith will come walking in (late from work – again) saying something chirpy like “Hello family – how is everyone?!”

Shame …..

Afraid to be Alone …and can we murder Horatio Caine?

I really had quite a difficult spell over December/January. I find this time of year really hard. Work starts to pick up from about September and in December it is crazy – insane stuff.

I do my utmost not to urinate at work, as I don’t actually have the time – no really, I have unbelievable bladder control.  I am in print and production and it seems like every year our clients are shocked and stunned that Christmas will fall on the 25th of December.

Every year it is this chaotic rush around and it builds to a fever pitch as the 25th approaches. It is so stressful and I am pushed further than I am willing to go.  Every year the schools my kids attend, plans an end-of-year something, so I am flying around trying to attend all these things at more than one school.  Add to that your own company end of year function, your department end of year function, your must see friends before end of year, and basically that leaves you with about two hours free on the 17th December sometime between 2 and 4 in the morning.  It is absolutely certifiable  i n s a n e!!

My son also has a birthday in December so that only adds to the pressure.  It’s the planning, booking a venue, the invitation, the annoying parents who do not RSVP.  These really pip me over the edge.  So I never know if they are coming or will just arrive, so I start catering and planning for “possible children.” <double scream> Several times I have had kids arrive whose parents did not RSVP – this is not a totally rare occurence.

Then my absolute favourite – Christmas shopping.  I end up having to do it on the 22 – 24th, as it is the only time I have!!  I end up dragging kids through shopping centres.  Usually  the combination of my frayed nerves and the sound of Mariah Carey doing what ever Christmas warble she has thrown together this year, is unfortunately enough to take what ever HO out of the ho-ho-ho christmas jollies for me.

This year was EXTRA special. I was dealing with “being-abandoned-by-my-maid-who-was-filling-in-for-my-actual-maid, as-my-actual-maid was-home-in-Zimababwe-for-the-holidays” situation.  Suffice to say I was one Valium short of a full nervous breakdown.

This set of circumstances pushed me into an entirely new sphere of off-the-hinges behaviour.  It even shocked me a bit.

In the first week of January I stood in my house trying to assess my situation whilst Isabelle was firmly attached to my left hip, with my hair tightly entwined around her mucus incrusted chubby little fingers, which she was rhythmically pulling. I had stopped feeling the pain of my hair being pulled from the roots, as my mind had already left “the place where it is sane” and had started shopping in the crazy aisle.

I was standing there and realized that:-

1. The dust blowing in from our destroyed garden is doing my head in. No matter how many times I wiped a surface, it is black with dust 10 minutes later.  And I really am not a neat freak, but this black grit on the toilet and every other surface was really doing me in.

2. The dog is scratching because she needs Frontline and I have not had a chance to get to the vet to buy it. Every time she scratches a little bit more of my sanity vacates, as I picture the fleas jumping off her and on to my children.

3. Georgia is deciding now is a good time to empty her toy boxes all over her room (see earlier note regarding no maid)

4 Connor is arguing with me about everything and right now, I really need a large glass of wine, a long lie down time and to be left alone.

5  To really crown it all Kennith is on a business trip to China, so I am not going to be getting any help for a good seven days at the least. That might have been the deal breaker right there.

6  I feel like  am this awful mother as I am not coping with my kids with my house, and my inability to have a chance to shower or put my contact lenses in are doing nothing for my sense of morale.

When all of those pieces started to come together and make a Rorschach pattern of my life, what was left of my little brain just went “pop!”

I lost it  ……  totally off the rails stuff.  Its the one where one minute you are fine and then **poof** it’s over.

I grabbed Connor and Georgia and banished them to their rooms and told them that today is “throwing away toys day” and clean up room day. And no one comes out of their rooms until toys are sorted and rooms cleaned.  I might have been shrieking like a fish wife at this point – actually guaranteed.

Of course I am doing this with crazy hair, eyes a little too wide open behind smudged glasses, and no doubt spittle being emitted from the corners of my mouth.  It really could not have gone much worse.

Isabelle was crying as she was no longer on my hip. Georgia started to cry because I forced her to start throwing away her toys and I was screaming.  Connor started to cry because he could not watch the television programme he wanted to, and he realised mom was going suicidal on him …… and really I wanted to cry, but I screamed instead.

I decided to keep this up for about three hours. Then I was exhausted, my nerves were raw, and I was sure that I was going to kill someone.  It really was just a case of where to bury the bodies.

Once the toys had been sorted – which as you guessed it, I ended up doing in my now rather manic episode.  Once everyone stopped crying and sniffling, I threw them in the car and we went down to McBadFood for a nutritious meal and a crappy toy!

I do not know why I get myself in to this state. If Kennith is left with the kids, you would find him lying on the couch watching his favourite show, and occasionally scratching his scrotum for some light relief.

Isabelle would be in her cot, having the longest afternoon sleep of her life. Georgia and Connor would be in the television room, high on too much Oros, and happily watching Cartoon Network, while their brain cells died one cell at a time.

Sure the house would look like a scene from CSI. The one where you really hope that this is the episode where someone murders Horatio Caine for his annoying mannerisms, and quirks. The thing about him is that he has to pause, remove his glasses and say something completely redundant to anyone with half a brain. For example, standing over a drowned person – takes off sunglasses and looks at nothing in particular and says : ” This person wasn’t just drowned… they were killed.” However I digress …

Kennith somehow is able to manage our children and our house without getting himself in a total state. Part of his tactic is to totally ignore the state of the house, and do make the kids what ever is the easiest for him.

Me, I am afraid of being left alone with my house and my kids without some sort of domestic help to intervene. I do worry that one day Kennith is going to come home to find that I have run away, or there are dead bodies strewn over the just washed white tiles.

But for now I take deep breathes, and try to find my happy place …. and pray that December stays far far away from me right now.

It’s going to get a lot worse before it gets any better ….

Kennith and I argued a great deal.  Not those nice calm loud discussion we had experienced in the past – but those real screamers that usually ended up with profanity being yelled across the house.   It was truly horrible – on the upside he was seldom there so the arguments were not that frequent.

Besides the pressure of doing MBA, Kennith had committed to doing a trip up Kilimanjaro about a month after our second baby was due.  This meant that when the MBA finally finished, Kennith started going to gym after work, and on the weekends going on hikes to train for Killimanjaro.

To say I was livid, would not even hint at the anger I was feeling.  I was so annoyed and disappointed. His actions really just re-enforced my feelings of abandonment.  For me the resounding message was “those you rely on will abandon you at the time when you need them most.”  Kennith’s actions drive this message home again and again over this period.

I was desperately ill during the pregnancy.  Probably because I was just so stretched in terms of what I could cope with. I started to pick up every infection that went around.  I was always sick and lethargic. I could not cope, and at about this time Kennith in all his MBA wisdom, had decided that now was a super great time to go and climb a mountain.

One day I got home late from work, and was exhausted.  My job was very stressful and also required me to literally run around a production floor.  Kennith was working at the dining room table, and we got into a fight about the bed that he had just bought.  It was a huge screaming fight – but the fight had nothing to do with the acquisition of the bed.  The fight was about my desperation of being left alone, that he knew how I felt, and chose either not to care or not to notice.

I had made an awful decision to have a second baby, which would only tie me to this man for longer.  I really needed to get out of this relationship.  About a month before I was due I ran away from home and went to seek refuge at my mom’s home for about a week.  I really just slept and was taken care of which was great.  Of course nothing would change on returning home.

The pregnancy progressed and it was anything but peaceful.  I was ill, over worked, over stressed and exhausted.  I decided that I did not want to know the sex of the baby.  I was convinced it was a second boy.  I decided if I did not actually find out then I could have a mild fantasy about having a daughter – which I was desperate for.

Kennith attended all if not most of the OBGYN visits.  They really were not great times, and we would often get into a fight as I would arrive late.

To further aggravate my situation I decided that I wanted to go into labour and go through a trial of labour.  It became an obsession.  I had a planned c-section with Connor and it had gone along without any incident. In fact it was brilliant.  But for some reason, my rather hormone-soaked brain decided that this is what I was going to do – and  no one could reason with me.    Anyone who tried to reason with me seemed to spur me on even more in my resolve.

My OBGYN tried to talk me into a c-section and I just got my back up and even went as far as to visit a midwife, as I was considering changing care providers.  I was out of control, and desperate, and making the most bizarre decisions which only added more stress on to the situation.

In my final trimester, I had picked up bronchitis and a few bouts of pink eye, and remained ill throughout.

This baby was due at the end of June, and I was just going to wait it out, though I was so exhausted I could barely stand, but somehow I thought I would be able to get through labour!

End of Days

Kennith likes to get his monies worth out of everything.

The fact that we had paid for the full day at our Medi-Clinic meant that I was going to stay there for the full day – none of this going home at 11am nansy-pansy stuff.

After work Kennith arrived to collect me.  I had been sobbing for the last two days and the idea of wrenching me away from my trusty nurses’ buzzer did little to calm my already frayed nerves.

In the car we go and start the drive home, which in a non traffic situation would be about 20 minutes.  The consequences of collecting me late was that now we were trekking home in rush hour traffic on what is a very busy route.

The problem started when I was sitting in the back seat with Connor firmly strapped in his snug and safe (points there for supporting the Arrive Alive campaign).  I looked over at him and it occurred to me that he was dead.  I could not see that he was breathing.  5 minutes with me and my child had clearly not survived.  I sat there in the back seat wondering how long I should let this continue before bringing it to someone’s attention.

Unfortunately with a manic episode one’s concept of the linear time equation gets a bit skewed and minutes seem like hours and visa-versa.  I yanked Connor out of his seat and decided that if I breastfed him, then it would wake him up and if he woke up, then he could not be dead, and then all would be fine.  Kennith is trying to drive and keep this situation as sane as possible.

I eventually get Connor out of his seat, whip my shirt over my head (I do not endorse driving with kids out of a car seat, but this moment I was having a clear break down of anything remotely normal).  My breast exposure resulted in cheers and generally lecherous behavious from the labourers returning from work on the construction truck driving adjacent to us.

I am trying to push my rather inflated breast into Connor’s face and he is so fast asleep that he is not taking any notice.  To my rather frazzled mind, this indicates again how dead he actually is.  Kennith pulls over to the side of the road checks the baby – reassures me baby is fine and carries on driving.   His reassurance calms me for all of 30 seconds and then I start panicking again.

All I can think of is that this baby is near death (notice how the level of death keeps changing for me on this drive.)  I need to get it to a hospital – and how are we going to get to the hospital if the traffic is bumper to bumper.

The other critical issue is that Kennith is wrong and he has now become the enemy to my trying to save the life of my baby.  I am already thinking of how I am going to field questions from people when they ask “how’s the baby” and I have to explain that I could not get him home without killing him.

At this point, I am thinking that when Kennith slows at the robot, I can jump out the car with Connor, rush into oncoming traffic, hop in to an unsuspecting person’s car and ask them to take me to the nearest hospital ER.  All a good plan – just trying to work out my timing and whether I am going to tuck and roll when I eject myself from the motor vehicle.

I am so deep in thought that Kennith’s eff’ing and blinding finally breaks through and I realize that the car is over-heating.  He has to pull over to the side of the road while plumes of steam and smoke are coming out from under the bonnet.

The only thing keeping me from total hysteria is that I am busy hatching my “jump out of the car” plan.  Before I can take my plan to the next level, the Albino character from Arnold Schwarzenegger’s movie End of Days appears along side us – this woman was incredible.  She was also incredibly drunk, but I digress.

This guy was straight off the set of End of Days - it was incredible.

This person was straight off the set of End of Days - it was incredible.

As we had blocked her path, she steps to the right, and then proceeds to pull her homeless trolley along the side of our car.  We sat there in the car hearing the high pitched screech of metal on metal.

Kennith flips his switch and moves away from the sanity corner.  He hops out of the car intent on causing severe bodily harm to the homeless person – at some point he realises it is a woman.  In the end he decided that using his super human strength and tossing her trolley to the kurb was the solution.  The situation is clearly past out of control and now we have a drunken bergie person swearing and blinding at us.

Kennith gets back in the car and with a  final eff’it, starts the engine and just drives home totally ignoring the plumes of steam and potential fire under the bonnet.

By the time we get home I am about ready for my shot of Valium, hell it should be administered as a drip at this point.

My mom had made us a wonderful lasagna and salad as our welcome home dinner and I am crying and just want to lie on the bed and cried some more while holding my child like a blubbering idiot.

I am not sure of how happy other people’s home comings have been with their babies, but that was mine!