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Zombie Autopilot

18 Nov

I swear it’s not postpartum depression.

Sign of postpartum depression (as stated by the Mayo Clinic):
* Loss of appetite (I WISH)
* Insomnia (Nope)
* Intense irritability and anger (hehe, no more than usual)
* Overwhelming fatigue (I have a fucking infant. What do YOU think?))
* Loss of interest in sex (No less than usual. Sorry, Mr. Bee!)
* Lack of joy in life (Oh, I enjoy life. I would just like to go out and have one once in a while…)
* Feelings of shame, guilt or inadequacy (Again, I AM A MOM. I’m pretty sure all these feelings come with the territory.)
* Severe mood swing (Nope)
* Difficulty bonding with the baby (Nope)
* Withdrawal from family and friends (Uh, I HAVE A BABY! What idiot made this list, anyway?)
* Thoughts of harming yourself or the baby (Never!)

I have to say, though, the memory of my two day hospital stay is quite enticing. Room service? Call buttons to have help to wipe my ass, if needed? Where do I sign?

First of all, don’t get me wrong. Postpartum depression is a VERY serious thing and I am in NO way making fun of people you have it.

Also, despite my hereinafter total bitch fest, I do love being a mommy (and a stay-at-home mommy, too). I know I’m lucky, yada yada yada.

But you don’t come here for me to have rainbow diarrhea all over the place.

As I finish up my third month of being a mother of two, I. Am. A. Zombie.

Just replace the craving for brains with donuts.

I am so sleep deprived right now that I’m pretty sure I’m only using roughly 1% of my brain. Maybe 0.001%. On a daily basis, I can’t even remember the last time I nursed the baby, let alone getting questions on Jeopardy correct.

“This is a condition which can transform educated and highly functioning women in to drooling zombie monsters, incapable of completing a sentence and/or using vocabulary above a third-grade level.”

What is “being a mother,” Alex.

Right now my days consist of waking up, breastfeeding Bug, snuggling with Bee until she turns in to a preschool demon, burping Bug, cleaning spit up off my shirt, yelling at Bee, putting Bee in time out, changing blown-out diapers and somewhere in there cleaning the house and attempting to exercise in order to stop being, how can I put this delicately?…ENORMOUSLY FAT.

Blah blah you just had a baby blah.

I’m pretty sure that this is where I would have the punchline of sorts, but due to, well, all of the above, I’m just going to stop writing before I spread more verbal diarrhea all over your computer.

You’re welcome.

The End.

Song title: Zombie Autopilot by Unearth