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Hitting The Wall

It happens in every long-distance race.  That moment when you hit the wall, think can not go any further and want it all to stop NOW.



That was this week.  I knew it was coming...could see it happening in slow motion. All week, I felt just plain old sorry for myself. But when big, chocking sobs hit me yesterday I was still slightly surprised. I cried and cried that I could not do this any more.  That I did not want to stay home and clean and cook and make babies and look after babies and get snacks and most definately did not want to be pregnant a moment longer.

And so I threw a bit old fit.  I cried.  I stomped. I threw a pillow across the room (oooh, I do love throwing things when I am mad, a terrible habit I know!!).

And then my two little monkies wrestled on the bed next to me. My knight in shining armour and hiking boots came home and played and laughed and brought me cookies. I took a bath and did a bit of knitting.  I went to bed and got up and realised that, yes, I could carry on and that, no, it really wasn't all that bad.  


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