It all started on a Sunday morning . . .
I awoke to my daughter crying, and I felt unprepared for my day to start. As I lay there, debating how long I could let her cry before guilt set in, I decided it was best to go ahead and get up. I pulled the warm covers off of me, got my baby girl, and sat back down in bed. As I fed her, my son came barging into the room, as he normally does when he first wakes up. Only this time he had a box of Oreos in his hand, asking if he could eat them for breakfast.
No. Obviously.
My husband was still asleep, and I gazed at my baby literally sucking life out of me. I began to mentally prepare my day. I had already begun to feel overwhelmed when I heard my son scream from downstairs, “MAX IS POOPING ON THE CARPET AGAIN!”
Begin: Stressed Out Mommy Mode.
Being unable to do anything, due to the baby attached to my chest, I woke up my husband and told him our “911” situation. He dutifully went downstairs and took care of the poop. As chaos ensued, it became time to get ready for church. Enter my almost-five- year-old son sitting at the entrance of my bathroom, bouncing on my exercise ball, making random noises.
I mentally calm myself, reminding myself to breathe, and that he’s not actually doing anything to hinder me from getting ready. It’s just noise. Tune. It. Out.
My husband and I proceeded to get the kids and ourselves ready. As I finished the final touches on my outfit, I heard my son scream, “MOM! MAX PEED IN THE CAR SEAT AGAIN!”
What?
I just cleaned that car seat yesterday after he peed on it the night before.
Church starts in ten minutes.
Panic.
I rush downstairs and clean the car seat the best I can.
Begin: tears.
My husband offers to clean it for me, but I logically deduce that he doesn’t know the correct way to clean it; therefore, I must. Plus, someone needs to hold the baby.
Scrub. Cry. Repeat.
I get it as clean as I can and tell my husband to drop off our son at church, then swing me by his mom’s house so I can wash the car seat before he heads in to work. (Oh yeah, did I mention we don’t have a washer or dryer yet and that my husband’s truck died a month ago?).
As I put away the cleaning supplies, I begin to hyperventilate.
Oh, no.
I try to calm myself down, but I can’t exhale.
More panic.
I tell myself, “You’re having a panic attack, Brittany. You need to calm down. You need to exhale.” I continue to inhale until I can’t anymore.
I begin to hit myself on the chest.
Again, and again, and again.
Exhale.
Finally.
I begin to gain control of my breath and my tears just in time for my son to find me and ask, “What’s wrong?” over, and over, and over, again.
Breathe.
“Please go away, I’ll be downstairs in a second.”
I find my composure. Everyone gets to where they need to be.
And it’s like nothing ever happened at all.
