I wanted to tell you about so much.
I wanted to tell you how last week, Monday night, Nemo fell out of our bed, where he has been sleeping with us since he outgrew the bassinet. I was down here
reading blogs doing dishes when BigDaddyFish appeared, got a drink, and went back upstairs, through our bedroom to the loft, where his computer is. Two minutes later the sickening crash/thud and the screaming. Oh, the screaming. We both ran to him, held him, rocked him, rubbed his back, and soothed and comforted him until he calmed down, but he continued to do that "Wah!" baby cussing thing at us for a good hour after. Sunday I put his crib together, where it sits in the middle of our room, at the foot of our bed, where there is little room to walk around it to get in the bed.
I wanted to tell you that BDF has taken some positive steps in trying to fix the hating the job problem that he has, but I can't tell you details yet.
I wanted to tell you that we went down to the National Building Museum on Saturday, BDF, Nemo, and me, and how when we got there we discovered there was a huge event called The Big Draw going on, because a new exhibit featuring the work of David Macaulay opened that day, and he was there signing books and they had all kinds of drawing classes for kids and we didn't know because we are dense parents and too stupid to check the web site before we went and Trout loves to draw and would have loved it and we felt like shit. But I got to see the Green House exhibit before it closed and we got a couple of books that will help us build our dream Green house in the future.
I wanted to tell you Nemo has started crawling, this adorable sort of crawling where, instead of "walking" on his knees, he rises up on his toes, kind of like he's in Downward Facing Dog yoga position, and then steps forward, then drops to his knees. He has also learned how to sit up himself.
I wanted to tell you how Trout went to Mad Science camp all day all last week with all manner of new knowledge and love of science.
I wanted to tell you how Sunny has had some sort of potty regression, and is peeing and pooping all over the house. Sunday afternoon she came down and looked at us and said, "Well, I just peed on Little Man's bed, on his pillow." For whatever reason Little Man had come down and told us "Mom, Dad, I kinda, um, just peed in my pants." He slept on a sleeping bag on the floor on Sunday night. I am truly sick of other people's body fluids, and, um, other stuff.
But I can't. Because I have to tell you about a plate.
I have alluded to some of the marital problems that BDF and I are having, and they will continue to be allusions, but they do continue. They are not helped at all by the postpartum depression that I am suffering. Monday night, BDF and I had a monstrous fight. He tends to be antisocial in the best of circumstances, and when stressed he retreats, and at one point during the fight he told me he just didn't want to talk to me anymore.
So I retreated to the basement.
I sat, in the laundry room, crying, thinking, spacing, for more than an hour. I thought about cutting myself, something I've never done before and I have no idea why I was thinking about that, but I was, but I decided not to because I couldn't figure out where on my body I could do it where no one else would see, and I didn't want my daughters, or sons, either, but mostly my daughters, to ever see their Mom that way, so I didn't do it.
After a while BDF came down and invited me upstairs to talk, so I came back up and we talked. But it was bad timing and we were both still too upset about stupid shit we said to each other earlier in the evening, so we said some more stupid shit, some spectacular stupid shit, and I blew. Just exploded.
My brain was bursting, my heart breaking, shattering. I had to get the rage out before my heart literally broke. I ran down to our kitchen, where I wanted to grab a chair and throw it through the sliding glass door, but I didn't want to scare the kids that way, so I ran to the cabinet. I grabbed a stack of Corelle plates. One by one, I smashed them into the hardwood floor.
For plates that are supposed to be difficult to break, they exploded in dramatic, spectacular fashion, tiny shards of glass flying everywhere. Bam! Smash! One, two, three, four. Then I smashed Trout's special plate.
I smashed Trout's plate.
She has her own plate. She picked it out herself at the Corning outlet.
I sat on the floor, in my nightshirt and underwear, surrounded by thousands, maybe millions, of tiny shards of glass, barefoot, bleeding in a couple of places where shrapnel flew up and hit me, and sobbed. What the hell had I done?
I smashed Trout's plate.
And I broke my own heart, all over again.
I wailed until I couldn't wail anymore. I hated myself.
Then I picked myself up, made my way through the minefield of broken glass, grabbed the broom and dustpan, and cleaned it all up. I found slivers of glass everywhere, in my houseplants, on the counters, embedded in the side of the trash can. I swept, I vacuumed, and I wept.
I went to bed at 4 am. I got up at 7:30, and I vacuumed and cleaned some more. I didn't want my babies cutting their feet when they came in for breakfast.
Trout got up before anyone else. Oddly enough, she and Little Man had slept through the entire carnage of the night before. I confessed what I had done.
I explained that I wasn't mad at her, and I loved her beyond reason, and I cried some more as I told her I am sorry. So very, very sorry. And you know what she said?
"That's okay, Mommy, we can get a new one. It's okay, Mommy."
Her forgiveness broke my heart into shards once again.
Yesterday morning, I called my OB to get a referral to a new therapist. Last night, I saw her. She did her official diagnosis. Postpartum depression. She says she can help me. She can help me help myself.
Because I never, never want my children to have their hearts broken into shards because of me.