Ramble Ramble

These days, I’m really stressed. (as I may have mentioned). I’m over-worked, and over-tired, and over-stressed. And when I get over-stressed, I tend to become stupidly emotional. Sometimes my stress manifests in anger, sometimes in sadness, and sometimes, like now, in overwhelming guilt.

Yup, I get stressed and GUILT is the primary emotion I feel. I’m my own brand of crazy.

Some of the guilt makes sense.

• I feel guilty about working so much, and not spending enough time with the kid.
• I feel guilty when I’m at work and have to take breaks to pump, since it’s “wasted” work time.
• I feel guilty when I’m at work and itching for the clock to hit 5, so that I can at least go home and work near my kid.
• I feel guilty about not feeling like I’m giving any of the areas of my life enough of me. I feel like everything is getting short changed–you know, jack of all trades, master of none type stuff.

But those things all kind of make sense. Those are things that you could see any logical person thinking when things get stressful and there aren’t enough hours in the day. Let me share with you where my feelings of guilt are CAH-RAZY person talk, obviously brought on by emotional stress:

• I feel guilty for feeling guilty. I feel like I should know better, so it just exacerbates the problem.
• The kid has been spitting up a lot lately. It’s relatively new in the last couple of weeks (well, the volume. It’s not like he’s never spit up before). Rather than think, like a normal person, “oh the kid is drooling a TON, and has recently figured out how to nurse way faster but hasn’t figured out how to feel full as fast, and therefore, extra contents of stomach must find exit point”, my first thoughts are: “what did I eat today? Obviously I ate something that disagrees with him. Oh, God, what if he has reflux or an allergy and I’m missing it because I’m so busy, and crap I’m the worst mother in the world because my kid is miserable and it’s all because of me. I should just eliminate everything from my diet except crackers and water, just in case.” It should be noted that the kid? Is never bothered by spitting up. He’s not upset, or fussy, or mad (except when we stop playing to wipe his face, how DARE you stop the playing?). I on the other hand, have been turning into a mess about it.
• I threw N.C. a surprise party this weekend for his 30th birthday (which, by his telling actually was both a surprise and a lot of fun). But a bunch of people ended up not able to make the party, turning the surprise party into more of a surprise…gathering? get-together? So I spent the night feeling guilty that I didn’t throw him a good enough party, or that I should have invited more people, or that I should have known that people wouldn’t make it and so planned something different where it wouldn’t be so obvious that I failed completely at my (self-imposed) task of throwing him a party. Somehow I managed to feel guilty about OTHER people not showing up to a party.
• I found myself feeling guilty the other day that we’re doing ok financially. I know a lot of people, family included, who aren’t so lucky right now. And rather than just feel blessed that we’re in a good place right now, I feel guilty about our relative good fortune. Like I should be ashamed of our lot in life.
• On Friday, the girl who reports to me left work early because she got sick. Because of that, something (that is not on any deadline at all) didn’t happen. And when someone asked me about it today, in a totally non-confrontational way, I felt guilty and defensive that it hadn’t gotten done. Like I should have done it on Friday when my coordinator went home and so felt guilty that I hadn’t.

These are just a few examples of my crazy. I mean, the guilt extends into all areas of my life. Cat not getting enough attention: guilt. Car needs to have the alignment done: guilt. Give the baby to N.C. so I can go to the bathroom: guilt. Tracked water into the office during torrential rain: guilt. I mean, over the stupidest crap. And I recognize it’s stupid crap, and I recognize that it’s related to my stress level. But that doesn’t really help–even though I know I’m being crazy, I can’t seem to stop.

I know it will get better when the stress lets up. I know it will, so it’s just one more reason to hang on until then. It’s a little like a roller-coaster–I’m all white knuckled fear, gripping the bar for dear life, and just waiting, waiting, waiting, until the ride is over and I can breathe again.

As always, more lists can be found over at Anna’s at abdpbt!

So for the past however many weeks, I’ve been looking at crib bedding. Searching and searching for bedding I like, that N.C. likes, that we feel like we can stand to look at for the next few years. Mainly, I’ve been doing this so that we can choose paint colors and get the nursery painted before July rolls around (N.C. has 4, yes FOUR, art shows the last two weeks of July–he’s going to be useless around the house during that month and heaven knows I’m not painting the nursery!). But it’s been hard–I haven’t found anything that I just love, and for the cost of baby bedding, dear lord I’m going to love it or we’re not buying it. I’ve looked online, in stores, on craigslist, you name it, I’ve looked. I’ve been an obsessive mad-woman, driving my husband crazy with “well what about this one?”, or “but don’t those colors seem a little off?” or “I dunno, it just doesn’t seem right.” It goes beyond nesting and straight to crazy-lady land.

But I finally realized something last week–I’ve been obsessing about this for reasons that have nothing to do with bedding and decorating. Nothing at all to do with paint, or fabric colors. In fact I’ve been obsessing for two main reasons, both of which are harder to admit than I would like:

1. It’s much easier to obsess over fabric and paint and decorating the nursery than it is to obsess over pediatricians and vaccines and daycare  and health insurance and maternity leave and HR and paying the bills during maternity leave and omg let’s not even discuss labor and delivery. And of course, those are all things I desperately need to be paying attention to, but, um, they scare me and I don’t wanna. Instead, can’t I just obsess over whether that shade of teal is too blue or that fabric is too scratchy?
2. I am a control freak over certain things. I like to plan and prepare and know what I’m getting myself in for. And frankly, having a kid just doesn’t allow for that. I can’t be prepared for what it’s going to be like, or how sleep deprived I’ll be, or how easy or hard being a parent will be. I can’t prepare for how I’ll react to this little guy, and I can’t prepare for how I’ll react to our new life. It’s completely unknowable. That’s a lot to give up control over. That’s a lot to realize I just can’t “know” beforehand. So I obsess over getting the nursery ready  instead, because if I can’t control anything else, I sure as hell can control what that little room looks like. If I can’t know what the little man will be like, I can at least control what things I surround him with. It’s stupid, really, but my one little way of feeling like I have some semblance of control over this rollercoaster we’re on.

I’m trying to find ways to stop the crazy train, I am–we’ve finally made a decision (that I’m sticking to) on some nursery decor so that will help–but I’m also trying to just  allow myself to be freaked out about this all. I’m a first time mom, I’m allowed to be a little freaked and a little overwhelmed. It doesn’t mean I don’t love this kid, it just means that becoming a parent is kind of a big deal. And if the way to keep me calm about the big stuff is to care too much about the small stuff…maybe that’s ok. Maybe acknowledging that it’s ok will help me keep things in perspective.

I’m dragging today, and all thanks to my downstairs neighbors. They like to make dinner around 1am (oh, dear god the smells), but more than that, 1am is their “socializing” time. Since they’re all boys, of course their voices travel. Yeah, so not much sleep for me last night.

When I think about it, I’ve had lots of issues with neighbors since I started renting. There were the folks who lived above us that I swear must have had cement blocks strapped to their feet (here’s a hint…if you live in a 100 year old building with hardwood floors…buy a rug or two. And try not to stomp. If the stuff on my walls is falling off because you’re making them shake, you’re doing it wrong). The guy who lived below us who thought he was a dj and would “practice”…at 7am on Sunday. The guys who lived below us who played dodgeball in their living room from about 10pm until 2 am. But of course, these are minor compared to some of the crazy neighbors I’ve had.

It started way back in my junior year of college. That year, I lived in a house with 3 other girls. The house was nice (enough), but it was in the ghhhhheeetooooo. Seriously, there were drug dealers and crooked cops and crazy shit would happen all the time. We’d wake up and there would be liquor bottles in our mailbox. On a Tuesday. But the craziest was when what we think was a drug bust happened two doors down. Cops parked on our lawn, swat teams busting down doors, etc. Ah, what four naive white chicks put up with for cheap rent and a big backyard.

The next year, we moved to a nicer part of town, into an apartment. I loved that apartment, except for one thing. The floors were apparently made of cardboard or something. We could hear everything, and I do mean EVERYTHING, our downstairs neighbors did in their bedrooms. Like when the guy living below me apparently had two or three girls over. It got pretty dirty, let me tell you. Penthouse had nothing on that guy.

The following year after graduation, I moved into these so-called “luxury” apartments. But luxury apparently doesn’t keep the crazy away. Like the guy who thought his ex-girlfriend lived in my apartment. The guy who had a restraining order, but came banging on my window at midnight anyway demanding that I come out or he’d have to come in and get me? Yeah, that was fun. (He figured out he had the wrong apartment after about 5 minutes and then went and harassed her. She called the cops. Fun stuff.)

Of course, the kicker came that year as well. One night, my husband (then boyfriend) and a friend were over watching tv. We hear some loud, weird noises, but we’re engrossed in the show, so ignore it. Cut to an hour later, when the show is over and friend is going to leave. He walks outside  to a cadre of cops, police tape, and buzzing activity. Oh, and he’s not allowed to go anywhere until he gives a statement to the cops. Um, wtf? As it turns out, the noises we heard? A disgruntled cop killing his ex-wife’s lover and then turning the gun on himself. Yeah, crazy shit. That one wigged me out for quite a while (and I always wondered if they had to divulge that to whoever rented the apartment next? Cuz it was rented out like a month and 1/2 later).

Ah, crazy neighbors…how I wish I didn’t have so many stories about you. Someone please tell me I’m not alone in the curse of the bat-shit insane neighbors!