Ask for it

....and if you're wondering why, in that last post, I called for help instead of driving the kids into the river, this story explains it.

DD2 was the last to make it out into the real world, but the first to be released into my care. She spent just one night in the nursery before they gave her to me, telling me that I had to learn to take care of them eventually, so I might as well start with one.

So there I was, 2 days after giving birth to triplets, with a new, live baby in my room, and I had to look out for her. How hard could this really be, right? She was cute, soft, smelled nice. She was quiet. She was just a sweet little lump wrapped in a bunny rug, in that plastic bucket in the corner. Easy peasy.

...and then it was midnight, and all through the hospital, not a creature was stirring...except for DD2, who decided midnight was PAR-TAY time! She wiggled, squiggled, squirmed and made a few mewing sounds. It was okay, because I knew exactly what to do. I very carefully changed her diaper. I wiped her sweet little bottom with soft cotton balls. I played with her toes. I got my (pre-prepared) bottle ready, I cosied into the chair and I fed her. I gazed adoringly at her perfect nose. I counted her tiny little curled fingers. I burped her, re-wrapped her, and popped her back into her baby bucket. I was a parenting LEGEND. She was quiet and content...for exactly enough time for me to climb back into bed and close my eyes. Then came the noise. THE GOD AWFUL NOISE.

For the next 6 hours, there was screaming, crying, yelling, cursing and hysteria... and that was me. She was much, much worse. It was, by far, the single worst night of my life. Suffice it to say I seriously found myself wondering if I could just shove those babies back up my hoo-hah and call it a day.

Finally, finally, at about 6:30 in the morning, she fell asleep. Exhausted from the noise of my crying, I suppose, she finally gave up and fell asleep. A few minutes later the nurse comes bustling in, wishing me an annoyingly cheerful good morning. My response was to burst into tears and tell her there was nothing good about my morning. I sobbed out my story of The Night From Hell and how I was going to be a terrible mother and this child would never forgive me and she (and I) would need therapy forever more.

The nurse? She laughed at me. Laughed. She composed herself, looked at me with a curious expression, and said, "But WHY didn't you just press the nurse button? We would have come and gotten her out of here for you, so you could have some rest. There was no need for you to suffer all night."

Here's the thing. It never occurred to me. Not for one single, solitary second did it occur to me that I could ask for help. I never knew you were allowed to press the button and ask for help. I thought I had to do it all by myself. Wasn't that the whole point of getting her to room in with me?! You can imagine the look on my face, can't you? A mixture of, "Well fuck you and your stupid nurse button!" and "Holy shit, I am the biggest idiot in the history of the free world."

And this, dear internet, is why I now know when, how, and if I should ask for help. Some people (hello, MIL) think I don't ask for it enough. The reality of it is, that one night with DD2 - that night in hell - taught me about not only about the importance of asking for help, but it also taught me about my inner strength.

...and THAT's why I called DH instead of heading for the river.