Today I must admit is a real hard day to begin with. Yet another groundhog day, of dishes, cooking, “no..ing” my kids and cleaning. I’m a lot more hormonal than usuall because my period is on the horizion. I can’t exactly cry yet because I’m expecting someone soon, and what a way to greet someone who comes to your home with red eyes and a flushed face. There are days and even late nights where I plan to conquer mother hood and the day, but after my morning coffe wears off, what’s left, but jitters and snappy behavior. I have found that caffiniated coffe makes me happy like alcohol makes others. I’ve know for a while, set aside from my spiritual beliefs, that I could never be a “drinker” cause I don’t have the art of sipping at all. If it’s good, I’ll drink that all and want more immediately so ……..I would defineately be in someone’s Betty Ford like clinic because of another problem that I can’t afford to have next to this postpartum thing.
Weeks ago they had this 20/20 special on moms who drink, and though we don’t have that in common, I am with them and their daily stresses and loneliness. I watched my New Jersey Housewife show, a day late, and saw Theresa, a proud mama who seems carefree and a “supermom” nonetheless. I was happy for her but devestated for myself because I’m TIRED and what my little sister use to say when we were kids, “I can’t want to”. I just want to be alone, to not hear the sound of my own voice repeating command after command, referreing every moment of the daylight because someone took something someone was playing with. Countless times of my second to the youngest wanting me to look at everything she does. If I had a endless bankroll like Theresa I’d be happy as she is with her kids to. Of coarse money isn’t “happiness” but it could calm my nerves a bit.
I guess what bothers me is the thoughts of being a failure, because I didn’t get to that bucket of clothes, or sewing those curtains (although I don’t know how to sew), or the thought of thinking am I a failure because I stepped out of the working world to raise my children. I don’t even bother “getting ready” anymore. Ready for what? The only place I go to is the park, Walmart, and…..church, that about it, and in about the same sequence to. No room for suprises here. I use to be a cometologist. I use to be so conserned about my hair and what I looked like, but I have what one would call bed hair, and I have the same jean bottoms that I stained yesterday with sweet potatoe baby food, but who cares, when there is nothing to look foward to. Back to Theresa. While going to be checked into the hospital she was dolled up with a halter top on and hair done, something I aspire to be….consistant on the concern I use to have for myself. It really is sad though sometimes I make light of it.
I know my four year old sees the difference, as she can hear the quever in my voice that I use to keep from exploding. “I can’t want to”allllllllllllllll the time! I can honestly say, I don’t recognize this person that I call my own name! This isn’t who I journeyed to be as a child playing with my Cabbage Patches. A little like Martha with a tan. Will I ever see that old friend who always had a smile on her face?
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