I am touched out. Touched. Out.
Do you know that feeling? When you're ready to backhand the next person who puts their hands (or mouth, or feet) on you, and you don't really care whether you gave birth to that person or not? When your breasts are sore from comfort nursing a sick baby 10,000 times in the last 24 hours, and you wake up to little hands all over your back and stomach because everyone's in your bed, and you just can't take another minute of it?
That's how I woke up this morning.
I'm trying, God knows I'm trying, but I've been snapping at the kids since before my feet hit the floor. And I feel just awful every time I do it, but I don't know how to make myself stop.
I hesitate to even put this out there where my kids could read it someday. But I have to keep it real. I can't pretend that every day of being a mostly-stay-at-home mother is bliss, because it's not. Sometimes it's hard. Sometimes it pushes me beyond my threshold for tolerance.
Sometimes I suck at it.
I feel like I have wasted my potential. I should have been more serious about college. I should have taken more math and science, and less yoga and beginning guitar (for God's sake). I should have gone to medical school. I have the intelligence. I could have been really good at it. Now it's too late.
I could have been somebody. I'm not somebody. I'm just Mommy.
Today I feel really trapped by my choices. And I feel like it's unfair that we make those choices in life when we're 17 and 18 years old, before we know anything about the world. Who set that system up? At 32, I would've made a lot of choices differently. Better. Wiser.
I hate it that the most cerebral thing I do some days is figure out how to get 5 loads of laundry upstairs in two baskets. I hate feeling stuck. I hate the endless cycle of meals and cleaning and changing clothes and laundry and cleaning and scrubbing and skipping showers because I don't even have 5 minutes for myself.
I hate feeling so isolated.
I hate feeling like no matter what I do, it's never enough. I'm not helping BJ enough at work. I'm not doing enough creative things with the kids. We're not taking enough outings (gas is so expensive!). If you ask me, "What did the kids do yesterday that helped them become who they're supposed to be?" the best answer I can offer is, "Well, everyone's still breathing."
I love my kids. I love my kids so much that it hurts me. It hurts me to know that I don't deserve them, that I'm not good enough for them, that even when I do my very best, it's not enough.
It's not. Don't tell me that it is, because it's not. They've watched Monsters, Inc. 10,000 times in the past two weeks. They deserve better than that. They deserve a creative, engaged, involved, patient, kind mother. They don't have that today. Today they have me. And I feel drained, and boring, and impatient, and invisible. Today I feel like there isn't enough Zoloft on the planet to fix what's wrong with me (yes, Mom, I took it).
Mary Grace just blew her nose on my shirt. I am not even kidding. I have to go make lunch. The show must go on.
This too shall pass.... right?