It started in the morning as I watched Justin get ready to leave the house.
That twinge of envy. The brow that furrowed. The heavy sighs as I ambled around the house wondering which mess to start with.
All the normal morning sounds that usually bring a smile to my face, grated against my ears and made my head buzz.
I walked around the house taking pictures in an attempt to shake it off (hence the otherwise irrelevant picture posted above) .
There was not enough coffee for that much-needed second cup. The cream was curdled.
How many times can one listen to Raffi sing “Frosty the Snowman” and keep their sanity?
I looked longingly at the sewing room knowing that another full week might pass before I am able to submerge myself in blissful creativity.
What did I do you ask? Did I rally my spirits and count my blessings? No. I threw myself a pity party. I wallowed in it. I swam around in a pool of “selfish-poor-me” until my fingers got all wrinkly and pruney. I refused to be mature and reasonable.
The children oscillated between hysterical silliness and grouchy bickering. I sent them to their rooms, and for an hour I lied every time they asked if it had been 20 minutes yet.
I wondered what must feel like to have a life that wasn’t always tethered by parental responsibility. I daydreamed about packing an overnight bag and driving down a beautiful road the ends on a rocky beach lined with dark Cyprus trees.
I imagined a life were I could leisurely go into town. I wouldn’t bypass the insanely long line at Starbucks knowing that it would cost me too much precious time. I wouldn’t rush around with my jaw clenched, from store to store, trying to accomplish as much as I could in the few hours I had. As I point the car towards home, I know that as I walk in the door with my arms full, I will be met by a pack of children who have been saving all of their questions, demands, and tales of woe for my listening pleasure. Do I unpack the groceries or feed the crying baby?
And now we reach the climax of this pitiful post. Where I switch gears and tell you the moral of the story. But there isn’t one. Not this time. This is just real life, where not every day is fair and fun. No one’s fault, no blame to assign. This is the flip side of the coin, the “equal and opposite reaction”, the shadowy side of the mountain. I don’t make a habit of throwing pity parties, it’s not my normal frame of mind, but sometimes they happen. And here on this page where I write about our life, about my life as a mother, I will acknowledge that.