I've reached Terror Level: Bitch.
OH I hate this oh how I haaaate this.
You would think I'd get off on being the diva in need. Lounging on the couch, fanning my face while affecting a Paula Deen voice and drawling, "Sugar, be a dear and get Mama a Perc-OH-set."
It's too much like this time last year with the pregnancy bed rest with day and night on the couch, and nothing but the teevee to keep me sane. Here we are again, after one crazy ass year and I'm shattered. I know it hasn't even been a week but I've HAD IT.
It's fabulous to lay around all day with nothing to do. IF YOU FEEL GOOD! If you aren't feeling surgical staples digging into your belly. I'm ready to rip these suckas out. HOW do I still hurt? Surgery schmurgery, blah blah blah. Recovery from a laparotomy is sloooow. And I'm not the most patient woman in the world.
There are three people keeping this house together. My Mother, who is 75 years old and gets exhausted just from walking up our driveway, so imagine what two babies do to her. My friend Britney who is making sure the three year old is taken care of. And the Husband, oh the dear husband. Between three shrieking me me me me's and one bitchy angry wife, he's ready to leave home.
I have to work Tuesday. Granted I work from home by sitting at a desk and reading out loud. But right now it hurts to delete a program from my Tivo. Reading a commercial with Much Enthusiasm is going to flatten me. Look, if I don't do it, someone with a younger and sweeter voice will do it for me. My line of work can be highly competitive and I will not let the former Senor Cystie blow my cash flow.
I see the doctor to have the staples removed on Thursday. I'm hoping he lifts all restrictions and I can drive and lift babies and be a normal human being again.
This house can't survive much more at Terror Level: Bitch.