It seems incredibly unfair that the long unawaited first return of my post partum period always happens to come when we're at the shore. She's three for three on a beach arrival, ensuring that I'm bloated, tired, and stuffed to the gills with frozen custard and salt water taffy while I attempt to squeeze myself into a bathing suit.
And don't even get me started about the tampons. Blech.
Of course, I should be able to predict her return pretty handedly by now, and yet, I still spend half the month thinking I'm pregnant or ovulating or a sinner that's being punished by children and a husband who are suddenly outrageously annoying.
I even had the passing thought that I hit an early menopause. Or maybe it was just a bad piece of pizza.
It doesn't help that Margot is waking up so many freaking times every night that I've got newborn night dread again, made slightly more challenging when all five of us are sleeping in the same room.
You'd think that after enduring three births and breastfed babies, Mother Nature would throw you a fucking bone already.
Or at least one that doesn't hit you square in the gut at 5:45 in the morning.