I didn't have baby blues-- oh, I was emotional after Goober was born for a good two weeks, but it was a "my life is too beautiful/i can't believe he's my baby" emotional that was full of happy tears.
I should have known something would get me down along the way. And it's not a depressive-my-life-is-ending down, but it's an I'm-too-tired-I'm-too-this-that-and-the-other down.
Let's just call it Spit Up Blues.
Because last night, after being spit up on for the umpteenth time that day, I cried. I cried for my dirty laundry. I cried for my poor little refluxing baby. I cried for my stretch marks. I cried for the weight I have to lose. I cried for the sleep I want and need so badly. I cried for my overworked and underpaid breasts. I cried for my lack of hair drying time. I cried for all of the things my husband doesn't understand about me being a full-time Mommy. I cried for the money we had to spend on our car in the shop. I cried for Conan O'Brien. Let's just say, I cried for a lot of things.
But it was mostly about spit up.
And I know it could be worse! I know I could have a baby with colic. I know I could have a truly ill baby. I know I could have to deal with a lot of things that would be worse than spit up. But last night, at that moment, I had had enough of the spit up. And to be honest, I am still pretty sick of it now.
So tonight begins the weekend. I am going to recharge, snuggle my baby and husband closer, work out at the gym tomorrow morning, and take a nice long breath.
...And, ya know, pray my baby's sphincter matures a little more and we get a little closer to beating this reflux thing.