Monday, August 8, 2011
I really enjoy mommy-blogs. Especially if the mommy's writing them are a little bit like me, creative types who paint/sew/sculpt/doodle/photograph while trying to keep their kids from the brink of insanity and also keep their husbands happy. I love seeing different parenting styles and picking up tips from mom's-who-know about rainy-day activities, and first days of school, and healthy-but-they-won't-know-that meals.
I don't see a lot of the other side though...the struggle of being a mother and wife and trying to keep everyone happy. Not perfect, but happy and functioning and on some type of schedule. And finding time to create and knowing that if you do the house is going to fall apart even more than it already is, and you just have to ignore it. Or not and go into cleaning-nazi mode and be pissed off at everyone because they aren't really chipping in that much.
I feel silly. I love my life but am so annoyed by it so much of the time. Does that makes sense? Actually, I don't just feel silly. I feel like a raging bitch a lot of the time, like I have snakes writhing around all over my head. Hayden don't do that, Hayden don't do that, Hayden stop touching that, Hayden you can't have that right now, no no no, honey, please don't give him that, honey he can't have ice-cream right now, I'm putting dinner on the table. And on it goes. I think I get tired of being the one who scolds alllllllllll the time. If I had a native american name it would be She-Who-Yells-With-The-Scratchy-Throat.
Sometimes though--miracle of miracles--both the husband and the boy are gone at the same time. I KNOW. And then I'll finish up the laundry, and put the final touches on that painting that's been sitting in my studio for about 2 weeks untouched, or I'll go on a sewing marathon, or I'll go for a really long run, or I'll go away and won't tell anyone where I'm going or that I've even been anywhere in the first place. And it feels so good, sometimes I just get down on my knees and thank God for the solitude.
The funny part of this is that usually, no more than two or three hours into being alone, I start to miss them. I start to get lonely and distracted and a little bothered by the silence in the house. I have to laugh because when I'm in the thick of the madness, when it's been one thing after another for what seems like forever, I'll say, "Oh my God, what I wouldn't give for a week to myself."
But I wouldn't even last a week.