Or something like that.
Wow, this past week and half has been the week from hell. It's been like final exam week. Or sorority rush. Initiation week. Or let's-see-how much-Dre-can-handle-before-she-calls-the-shrink-begging-for-a-sedative. Seriously. When I was at the vet today, I asked if they had any meds I could take. The workers at the front desk did not think I was funny. I was not joking, kids. Hand over the doggie painkillers pronto.
So, for a little over a week, we've been working on exclusively breastfeeding. We as in me and Greta. Eric, God bless him, has been plugging away at the office working on a project that is due tomorrow. For the past two weeks, he has been working until past midnight. Our only in-person conversations have been in the middle of the night when I've gotten up to feed Greta. The majority of those conversations go something like this, "Roll over on your tummy. NOW." And then Eric grumbles, and then I have to tell him that he is snoring like a bear and he must roll onto his tummy.
Back to the topic of breastfeeding... When I was pregnant, I wasn't sure if I would breastfeed. I'll be honest; I didn't know how I'd feel about it, if I would be comfortable or uncomfortable with it. I was afraid I'd see it as weird, as in another living being sucking on my boob. It's not like that at all. But since I didn't really think I'd end up breastfeeding, I never really learned much about it, so I'm going about this with no clue. I freak out every other day about whether Greta is getting enough nourishment, if she's gaining enough weight, if I'm starving her, if she is dehydrated. You'd think that I secretly like to torture myself by stressing myself out.
So, breastfeeding -- stressor numero uno.
And then the hubby is MIA. Off makin' the bacon but MIA.
And then to top it off, we've got the dog situation. And, boy was it a SITUATION. Egh. Payton had a lump on her hind leg that we had removed last week. I guess we never gave it much thought as to how bad it would be. Dog ended up having a huge chunk taken out of her hind leg, eight staples holding the suture together and two rubber drains dangling from her leg. And the blood, oh the blood! We had to put her in the basement because the bloody mess was out of control. The first night Eric brought her home from the vet, she cried in pain. It broke my heart. For anyone who knows me, they know that I love that dog like a person. I felt so helpless, especially because in the past, pre-child, I could go down and devote all my time and attention to her and her situation.
Not this time. There I was, kid eating from the boob, husband at work, dog intermittently crying and banging her lampshade Elizabethan collar against the basement support beams and dripping blood all over the place.
There's no point to this entry. I think I'm too exhausted to mesh all these thoughts together. The long and short of it is that I took Payton to the vet this afternoon to have her drains removed. She busted out of her lampshade collar on the way there, and thank God the vet said she could do without the collar. Payton has now graduated to the laundry room where we've moved her cozy dog corduroy dog bed and food and water accommodations. I can now get to her more easily and don't feel like I'm keeping a prisoner in my basement. And Eric is now finished with his work stuff, and we had dinner together at 8 o'clock.
And Greta and me? We're still working on this breastfeeding concept, but we don't have a crying dog to deal with, and we've got Eric by our side. THAT, my friends, is Xanax in the most natural form. Ahhhh.
Or something like that.