Attack of "The Crazy"

I want to bawl about nothing in particular today. I have only a scrap of mental focus, just enough to feed kids breakfast and lunch, and to tell them to quit smacking each other, or I'll put them in the Chokey (see Roald Dahl's Matilda, book or movie). Just kidding. I never actually say that, or do that, it's just a little morbid e.r./cop-type humor, I giggle about to myself when they all get rowdy.

Yeah, that whole eBay craftroom sale just isn't going to happen right now. I am just a big lump of don't-want-to-do-anything. Have I ever felt so useless? I guess I sort of get away with it now, because I'm 8-1/2 months pregnant, and have no motivation to do anything. I'm really hoping it's just the hormones talking, and I'm not seriously long-term industriously-impaired (i.e. lazy.) When do I get myself back? Couple years, maybe? And in the meantime, how in the world am I ever going to afford a new camera? I had a few small moments yesterday, when I was saying half-hearted silent prayers of the "can I win the lottery?" type of shallowness, while wishing for a new camera, and I felt stupid half way through, because heaven knows I'm not doing anything in particular to earn a new camera, and it's not exactly a spiritual type of prayer... and then again, I felt sorry for myself two minutes later. Blechh.

I nearly cried last night at the thought of having to make dinner. What? I told Zen that I guessed we were having mac n cheese for dinner, so he graciously stepped up to the plate and dumped the pasta in the pot, and grilled some hot dogs to go along with the mac-n-yack (because hot dogs are easy, and grilling is kind of manly.) It was nice, the helping out part, not really the food part, but at least I didn't have to cook it. That makes anything taste twice as good.

I was lamely trying to tell Zen about my lack of mental focus this morning, and it just confused him.

"What would you like me to do?" he asked.

I kind of rolled my eyes. I know he was just being a good sweetie and trying to help, but I said, "Could you just turn off your Man Brain for a minute?" You know, the whole problem-solving thing.

"Could you turn off your Woman Brain?" he quipped.

"No - and that's that problem! Look, I'm just trying to give you a heads up about myself today."

"Okay." No problem-solving required, and he was satisfied.

Which reminds me of another Man Brain moment. Last Friday, one of my daycare kids yacked a monkey all over the carpet, and Zen was trying to help me clean it up while I helped the poor little boy in the bathroom. When I finally got done cleaning the bathroom, shampooing the carpet, and settling all the kids in front of the tv so the sick boy could rest, I walked over to the kitchen sink, and found a slimey spatula with a big pile of barf on top of the dirty dishes. What?!!!! Apparently, Zen had scooped the big chunks up with the spatula, and put them in the sink for me to "decide" what to do with it later. What?!!!! He thought this was supposed to be better than leaving it to soak into the carpet. I was so annoyed that I went downstairs and said, "Next time, would you please not leave a pile of barf for me to clean up in the sink?" Immediate hurt feelings on his part, and irritation, "I'm just trying to help you!" "Well, it didn't save me any work. Now I've got to disinfect the dishes, too!" (Big pan doesn't fit in the dishwasher.) Women are picky, and men are not picky enough. We were annoyed with each other for about a day. Well, he was annoyed, and I was irrationally depressed. I tried to joke about his Man Brain the next day, but he wasn't amused, so I let it go.

While I'm crying about stuff, can I complain about my butt? I'm not even talking about size or shape here (an unmentionable topic), I'm talking about my tailbone. IT HURTS!!!! I can hardly sit down on anything, because there are evil monsters with tazer guns stationed by all my posterior nerves, just waiting for the moment when I have to get up off my rear and go do something. This is a prenancy thing, too, right? I hope the pain will fade after a while. The moral of this story is that you should never, never, never, never, never, never wear flip flops while walking down the snowy back steps of your house to get milk out of the frig in the garage. Or you will pay in pain for months afterwards.

So, I've got a bad case of "Crazy", which probably isn't going to improve significantly until the pregnancy hormones go away, and I get at least six straight hours of sleep every night after the baby is born. If I look like a zombie and have no sense of humor when you see me in Sheridan, you'll know why - "The Crazy" just hasn't gone away yet.