What Do You Mean You Get Overstimulated??

Being a girl is the absolute worst.
10/10 do not recommend.

Let me start by saying: yes, I should have gone to the doctor a minute ago. I’ve been bleeding on and off for over a month now. Shovel snow? Bleeding starts. Decide I’m going to become a runner (that lasted approximately 15 minutes)? Bleeding starts. Slip and fall on the ice? You guessed it. Bleeding.

The last few days—what I can only assume is my actual period—has rivaled the Great Floods of… honestly, pick one. Noah would be concerned.

This happened once before a few years ago. After a long night in the ER where they did literally nothing (except take a wild amount of blood), it was concluded that I am, medically speaking, ✨a mystery✨.

Fast forward to now. My OB from my last pregnancy was not my favorite, and the nurse takes 12–14 business days to return a phone call. I do have a new patient appointment on Tuesday and I’m on the cancellation list. After putting my uterus on notice the other day—specifically informing it that I have a doctor’s appointment where I will be advocating for its removal and destruction—it has suddenly decided to behave in a normal fashion.

Suspicious.

The point of all this is: I am already tired. And cranky. And operating on very thin emotional margins.

At work, I’m the boss. All day long, I’m the go-to person. Questions, decisions, problems—bring them to me. I’ve got it.

Then I get home.

The kiddos are thrilled to see me. And my wonderful husband, who stays home with them so I can go to work (not an easy job, by the way), somehow has the magical ability to block out the kids, the dog, and the cat like they do not exist.

I walk in the door and immediately cannot even set my things down before I have three people clinging to me—literally—all trying to talk at once. They are so loud. So many words. So many needs. All at the same volume.

Overstimulated has entered the chat.

It’s the weekend and we still haven’t gotten a snow blower. My husband’s back is still not great, so we go out to shovel. I step outside and notice the shovels are lined up against the fence across the driveway. Why would we not keep them somewhere that doesn’t require trudging across a snow-covered driveway to retrieve them? I don’t know. I choose to let that one go. Growth.

I grab my shovel and start clearing the stairs. A few minutes go by and I hear a motor running.

Curious—because, again, we do not have a snow blower.

I round the corner of the house and there he is…with the leaf blower. Blowing the snow around.

Suddenly, I am swept up in a homemade blizzard of snow, dirt, and gravel. My husband thinks this is hysterical. I do not. I retreat to the opposite end of the driveway.

To be fair, leaf blowing the snow did work. But it was not faster by any stretch of the imagination. And as the other person clearing snow, I was now dealing with significantly more debris flying at my face, causing my eyes to water and my nose to run nonstop.

But it saved his back, so… fine.

I get inside and am immediately attacked by tiny humans. My glasses are fogged. I cannot see. I cannot move. Someone asks if Mommy can get out of her boots. I have to go to the bathroom. I cannot breathe because my nose has been running for the last hour and a half without stopping to blow it.

I make it to the bathroom and shut the door to keep the hooligans out.

They are literally standing outside yelling:
“Can I have candy?”
“Will you snuggle with me?”
“Is it my turn to watch something?”
“Mommy!”
“The TV isn’t working!”

Can you all please leave me alone for three f*ing seconds?!

And yet… after all that.

I do love snuggling on the couch with whichever kiddo jumps into my lap. I know there will be a day when they don’t want to snuggle anymore. I know I will miss it.

So yes—let’s snuggle, kiddo.
But do Mommy a favor and keep the noise to a minimum. No narrating your entire life. No sudden shrieks. No interpretive sound effects. Just quiet snuggles. Whisper-level existence.

Deal?

Confidently winging it—powered by chaos and caffeine.