Have you ever thrown a perfectly good piece of meat at the wall recently? My guess is that you haven't. But I have. And although it was instantly regretted, it felt pretty darn exhilarating for that one second. So why did I throw a 6 oz. steak at my wall? Why the drama?
Hormones. It's as simple-and as complicated- as that.
Before anyone should think I make a habit of throwing (read: hurling) food across the room, let me break it down even further: I was ravenously hungry. It was 9 o'clock at night. Jake had been to the store after work to pick up my "filet" which he was told they didn't sell (seriously, what reputable grocery chain doesn't sell filets??) He came home, bathed Ella and gave her dinner, all while I had a fussy 3 week old hanging from my left boob- and then my right. and then my left again- all because of this very torturous phenomenon called "cluster feeding." It was the end of my first week home with both kids and my state of being was catatonic, at best. I had 3 hours of sleep the night before. And 3 hours the night before that...and the night before that...and all the way back for about a month. After a very long and draining week, I was somehow managing to keep my calm, convinced that restoration was coming to me in the form of a juicy filet and a velvety glass of Cabernet.
I sat down, took one bite of the steak, and started to cry. It was tough and chewy. It wasn't a filet. I decided that I couldn't drink my wine with a piece of meat that tasted like that. That would be a waste. Of course, if I couldn't eat the steak or drink the wine, I couldn't eat the baked potato and green beans either. It all had to go together, damnit. This was the meal I had been salivating over all day and it was ruined. Poor Jake. He did the best he could- it wasn't his fault. But I could feel the anger welling up in me. (Apparently, I don't cry over spilled milk, but I have the surprising ability to go ape shit over my red meat. Go figure). So when the bulging vein on my forehead appeared, my sweet husband quickly offered to go out and pick up another steak for me.
But I suddenly realized I had to leave. I had to get out. I didn't want him to go get me a steak. It wasn't about the food anymore. Sure, I wanted to sit down and enjoy a nice steak dinner and a movie while the babies slept, but I also wanted to be able to keep my eyes open past 8:30 p.m. I wanted to be able to run out to Target to get toilet paper and Tylenol without taking 45 minutes to pack up the kids, load them into the car and make it home before Milo screamed his head off needing to eat. I wanted to not smell like sour milk. I wanted jeans that could hide my post-partum muffin top. Even more, I wanted the muffin top to magically disappear, along with the stubborn 15 extra pounds hanging around my thighs. I wanted to be able to use the bathroom by myself or disappear into our bedroom to fold clothes without being followed. I wanted sleep. Sweet, beautiful, elusive sleep. Precious REM cycles. I wanted to feel like I wasn't failing at this "being a mom to two kids" thing. I wanted validation. I wanted to know that at some point, it HAD to get better.
I decided in that instant, I didn't want him to go get me a steak. I wanted him to go get me my life back.
It was almost as if my hand involuntarily reached down to my plate and chucked it before I could even tell myself to stop. And so the tough, chewy steak ricocheted off my wall, leaving a T-bone shaped A-1 stain above the kitchen sink and I proceeded to storm out of the house in tears, (begging the question- who was the real 2 year old in the house?) I got in the car and drove-not entirely sure where I was going- and had a good, ugly cry- you know, the kind with uncontrollable sobs and hiccups and mascara stains all down my neck and shirt. Several minutes later, I eventually arrived at my senses- and at the closest Outback Steakhouse. (I still really wanted steak). While I was waiting for my order, I waited for the guilt to subside. First, that I had acted like a 2 year old and actually thrown my food. And then there was all the mom guilt- those voices that show up to kick you while you're already bruised and bleeding. "You thought you could handle 2 kids. You thought you were ready. You'll never be enough for them both. You're destined to buy stock in waterproof mascara because you'll probably be crying every day for the next 6 months. Your husband could never find you attractive looking like this..." I thought surely Jake was pissed that I had stormed out like that. He was probably just as fed up with me as I was fed up with me, if not more. I was almost afraid to go back home.
And then I got the text. "Are you okay?"
He wanted me to come home. He wasn't angry. He just wanted me to be home.
I picked up my order and drove back in silence. When I walked in, my mess had already been cleaned up and the steak was resting in the garbage can, where I should have thrown it to begin with. I sat down to eat in silence, unable to think of an apology that could possibly make up for the way I had acted. Before any words could come out, the tears interrupted them all over again. Without a word, he reached over and pulled me to him and I realized that nothing else about that night really mattered anymore. Because if I have learned anything about this life I have made with my husband- and this life that we're building with our children- it's that there is room to mess up. There is room to bawl your eyes out and be scared. And come to find out, there's even room enough in our tiny kitchen to test the stain-resistance of our walls. Who'd have guessed?
So these hormones might be here in abundance, but so is love. But love will still be here in abundance long after the hormones have disappeared, and that's all that really matters at the end of the day. And as for sleep? Well, I'm told that it will return in abundance at some point too. I just hope it will be sometime before they start high school...
