The First Birthday Which Came and Went

Writing is hard.

Like, really hard.

Not like, 'I-can't-eat-that-gingernut-without-dunking-it-in-a-cup-of-tea-or-I'll-break-my-teeth', hard.

More like, 'why-am-I-still-sitting-here-looking-at-a-blank-page-when-my-sink-is-full-of-dishes-and-I-don't-remember-what-my-bedroom-carpet-looks-like', hard.

I don't know how long it's been since the Little One actually made it through 24 hours without vomiting. It's definitely not a bug, we've been sterilising like mad. Boiling her drinking water. Soaking her bottles, sippy cups and utensils in Milton laced water, which, incidentally smells like hospital, and so, takes me rushing back to the psych ward in my mind, every single time the scent invades my nostrils.

I've now un-enrolled her from preschool because it wasn't making any financial sense to be paying for their services when she wasn't actually able to go. Unfortunately, this has meant that I am starting to go a little bit mental again. I need the daily break. I need to know that that break is coming. Which is why, over the past month, I have found myself staring at this screen, willing myself to write something. Anything. But nothing will come.

Yesterday, I cancelled her first birthday party, hours before it was due to start. Husband was none-to-impressed to say the least, but I didn't feel like I had a choice. My stress levels are on overdrive, we have family coming at us from all angles for her birthday, we are swamped in an ungodly amount of toys, I have vomit bowls placed all over the house, I am trying to make her drink to avoid dehydration, she isn't sleeping, I'm not sleeping, I'm having flashbacks of the birth, I'm terrified I'm losing my mind again, family need hosting, house needs cleaning, She is screaming uncontrollably. On, and On, and On and ON!

I'm about to be discharged from the mothers and babies outpatients unit because Little Miss is now 12 months old and that is their cut off criteria. I'm finding that I don't really care, or perhaps I haven't really thought about it. I haven't really had time to really contemplate it amongst all the madness lately.

I can feel my supports slipping away. I'm supposed to be 'better' by now. I'm supposed to be coping. I'm supposed to be getting on with my life.

I find myself being asked the same two questions over and over;

"When are you going back to work?"

"Are you going to have another one?"

But the thought of going back to work seems impossible, if she is sick all the time, how can I take that amount of time off from a job to care for her? How could I possibly manage the stupid amount of extra hours that come with being a High School Teacher, how could I find time to plan, mark, write reports? Could I find the strength to put on my teaching face every day? Perhaps it would be helpful to return to work though, perhaps it would be what saves me, perhaps it's what I need...

And then there's the second question.

Another one?

Really?

Writing is hard.