How Do I Cope, Part Two

I’m flogging it With Some Grace today!

I’d just like to thank Grace for that awesome pun that I’m sure everyone else has used.

It’s her first week holding FYBF – so if you’re a blogger get on board!


This morning I have been to Big W.

Then I did the grocery shopping.

I took the twins in a twin trolley.

And they were foul.

They were pulling off their socks and throwing them on the ground.

As I bent down to pick them up, they were pulling boxes off the shelves.

Clip strips (the hanging displays in the aisles) are the bane of my existence.

They were when I was a ticket girl at Woolies, and are again now I am a mother with grabby handed children.

Then, with socks back on, the Two proceeded to pull each other’s socks off.

And scream at me.

Loudly.

Meanwhile, we were stopped by a plethora of well meaning elderly women.

All with the same phrases on their lips:

“Oh twins! I don’t know how you cope!”

“Oh, you DO have your hands full!”

“You are doing SO well, it must be hard.”

They were all lovely women.  They were all well meaning.

One even WAS an identical twin, and had a fascinating story about how she felt her sister’s labour pains.

Which I really wanted to stop and listen to. Ask her about the relationship she has with her twin sister now. About the relationship their children have.

And whether her mother was committed at anytime throughout her twin toddler rearing years.

But all I could manage was getting the groceries in my shopping trolley and getting out of there because, as chance would have it:

Today I am not coping.

Nine and a half days out of ten, I wouldn’t call it “coping”.

I’ve spoken about this before.

I call it: “Putting one foot in front of the other.”

Coffee. Sense of humour. Pram. Rinse. Repeat.

Because my only other option is to stop and drown myself.

And I have this thing where I don’t like to get water up my nose.

I went to the doctor last week.

Told her how I was feeling.

Because I was sure that this survival mode wasn’t normal.
That living in the equivalent of a toy demo mode, with only three sayings instead of 12 was strange..

Wasn’t quite right.

She tried very hard not to laugh at my assumption that because I was struggling, I might be depressed.

Then she told me that everything I was feeling, saying and doing was incredibly normal.

For my experiences.

For my life.

For the last two years.

Then she gave me a prescription for the pill and made an appointment for Pal to have a vasectomy consultation.

Because, as it turns out, my problem is that within the space of two years I had three children.

My special children.

You can take that special whichever way you like.

Oh, and with my mood swings I could represent Australia in the Olympics.

In the PMS event.

Turns out Hormonal is my speciality.

And Survival is my normal.

And the cure for all of that is to get my hormones stabilised and not take on any more than I need to right now.

Which in my GP’s not-so-suger-coated talk means: “Don’t have any more children, whatever you do.”

When I told My Bestie Amelia all of this on the phone, she told me:

“It’s because you wear makeup. People think if you’ve got time to put make up on, you must be doing all right.”

And it’s true. I am doing all right.

But the next time someone asks me how I cope I’m likely to let my nervous eye twitch loose on them and ask them:

What exactly constitutes coping?

Because if its bright eyeshadow, I OWN this coping shiz.