So, I’m pretty much a set of clippers away from being re-named Brittany. I had a friend relieve me of my mommy-induced craziness for a few hours with a bottle of sweet wine (Boone’s Farm, no less) and some good conversation which didn’t involve fruit snacks, Curious George or poop. I will say that if my children start bleeding out their eyeballs I’ll have to call somebody else to drive us to the ER.
Please don’t call CPS. It’s really not that bad and I’m sure I’ll be fine by the time this gets posted. Probably.
I feel like I’m missing out on all the fun mommy moments by being so very not involved mentally. I feel like I’m just not all there for my kids. I’d like to be really selfish. I’d like to nap on the couch. I’d like to have a moment to myself and shower with the door closed. I’d like to have a hot forkful of food that was tastily prepared by someone other than me. I’d like a chore finished that wasn’t done by me.
Ella says to me today: “mommy, are you happy?” Yes baby. “Then can you make your mouth go the other way?” I’ll work on that. “Do you know what I’m going to be when I grow up?” What Ella, mommy is trying to make dinner. “I’m going to be a Astronaut Ballerina.” That sounds fun. Excuse me, this is hot. “mommy, can we read a story when Melia goes to bed?” We’ll see. White milk or ice water?
I’m not really there. She’s a really cool kid and I’m not there. I’m burnt out, calling it in. I feel like the final months of my old job. My heart isn’t into it. When I quit my job it was because I wanted to be home and now I just want to be alone. Just for a little bit. I adore my kids but I’m done. Done. Really done.
And I can’t be done, can I?