From the moment we walked out of the hospital, poor Charles has been besieged by pain and suffering: gas, blisters on his newly-exposed winkie (post c-i-r-c), and horrible, horrifying diaper rash. I am now convinced that if there were tests or certification courses to determine eligibility for parenthood, I would not have made the cut. Disregarding my ridiculous weight gain (still can't wear my wedding rings) and stress during pregnancy, my overall performance as Mom has been abysmal. And truly, I have been afforded every luxury: a husband and extended family to care for me and Charlie, friends to bring us dinner (I haven't cooked a meal since delivery... how's that for useless around the house? Don't even get me started on the sad state of laundry and other chores), and enough money to buy what we need. All signs point to "Should Be Able to Effing Do This." But I can't, apparently. Instead, my baby cries because he's hurting and I can't do anything about it, other than offer him a bloody, blistered breast and hope that causing myself boob pain will somehow take his pain away. Except that it doesn't, because the more he eats, the more he dirties his diapers, and the more his butt hurts.
So I called his doctor today and we have yet another prescription paste to put on his rash, with instructions that if things aren't drastically better by Wednesday, we are to go in so I can be chastised by the nursing staff for DOING IT ALL WRONG.
So why have I painstakingly typed this post out with one hand while holding a dozing infant (he hasn't napped more than 20 minutes at a time today)? To implore you to pray, wish upon a star, or hope that Charles will get some relief from his suffering and there will be less crying in this household (by the both of us). Because I can't fix it, even though I would gladly suffer through cracked nipples and thirty extra pounds for THE REST OF MY LIFE if he would just be okay. And I suppose that I might have just cursed myself there, so, in the future, if Charles does get better and I complain about my fat ass, will someone please remind me that I traded looks for the health of my baby? Totally worth it, but I might never leave the house again. Oh, and if you're looking for a cute wardrobe, size 6, cheap, just let me know.
It's a good thing the doctor put me back on birth control, because I can't fathom subjecting another child to my ineptitude.