What I really meant was...

Tonight I spoke with a friend, about my last post. She said, in different words, this is not a quote, that I sounded whiny and silly, complaining about what most people would call a very nice life. (She said it differently, but I spoke to her on my way to catch the late show of An Inconvenient Truth. I am now so rattled and upset by the film that I can barely remember what anybody at all said to me today.)

My last post did not convey what I meant it to. I did not mean to upset Gerald, nor did I intend to complain. I was trying to write about being torn between feeling happy that I have time to pursue my interests, and feeling obligated to make life as comfortable as possible for my family before I take care of me. (The gym is not relaxation, it's really work - more on that later.)

I am fully aware I am a stay-home-mother, in the new classic definition of the term. I do not work for a paycheck, and the children, the housekeeping and the organization of those two are fully my province. If I go out at night, I make sure there is a meal ready to be served, and that the pj's are set out, complete with diapers, to make the post-bathtime moment as seamless as possible. I feel torn between wanting to embrace this role of SHM and excel in it, and feeling the futility of keeping the floor clean, and the like. There are so many parts of mothering a young family that are thankless and frustrating. For instance; the frustration I feel whilst attempting to diaper a wriggling, screaming child. Or the thanklessness of watching something you have just cooked/cleaned/tidied/put away/brought home/put on getting destroyed faster than anyone can move to save it.

I love my children. I delight in their voices, their expressions, their creative play. I relish the funny and sweet and crazy things they say and do. I adore how they show they love me; I love the noisy kisses and the choking hugs. I grin ear to ear when Baby A runs to the door of his classroom and announces to the world, alto voce, “Mommy is he-ah! Mommy is he-ah!” I feel the prick of tears whenever I see Baby B’s eczema flare up – I don’t want anything to hurt my baby. I have searched and researched the entire world to find something to help him, and I finally discovered that pure, unfiltered Shea butter from Ghana works best.

I love my husband, and I appreciate all he does for me individually and for the family. He is a hands-on guy, with the children and with the house and with me. (Teehee!) He is an amazingly devoted husband and father, despite our occasional parenting style differences.

I am very happy with my little house. This is the first place I have ever felt truly at home. I feel more at home after four years here than I ever did in the New York apartment in which I lived for almost ten years. My mother owned that apartment and never let me forget it. I take great pride in the prettiness, neatness, and organization of my own house. I have done a lot of work with my own little gloved hands, and I am, for the most part, rather pleased with the results of my painting, decorating, plumbing, construction and choice of artworks.

Tonight my friend asked me if I will ever be content. If she meant to ask, will I ever feel it's not necessary to cook something, or clean something, or organize something just because I have a free moment? Will I ever just rest, read a book, watch the grass grow or sleep? Well, I don’t know. It’s my personality to always be Doing Something, if I have the time in which to do it. I inherited that restlessness from my poor mother.

She also asked if I will ever be content with myself/my body. Well, right now the answer is no. I am not happy with my physical form, and never have been since I realized, at age nine or ten, that I was short and fat and had terrible, thick legs and stumpy, flabby arms. At least, I do compared to my “perfect” mother and stick thin sister. I was, and am, fatter and shorter, and always will be. I work-out a lot in an attempt to hold the obesity at bay, but because I have self-defeating tendencies, I over-eat. I over-eat when I am frustrated by something beyond my control, like the boys toddler fighting, or the cats endless miauing to come in or go out, or the hot weather, or the neighbor’s teenager with the stinky, noisy, oil burning car. I also over-eat when I am bored. Therefore, I keep busy. In theory then I won’t have time to get bored, and therefore I won’t over-eat. In theory. In reality, I run around, and wind up having lunch in the car. I am not comfortable eating in the car. I don’t pay attention to what I eat in the car, and often over eat, just to empty the lunch box, so as not have one more thing to lug about. I pack a light lunch, which works at times, but at other times I am just so hungry, I eat some of the boys lunch too. I truly do try to organize it well, but I am not perfect. Like you didn’t know that already, right?!

Gerald wrote: “Find another therapist and investigate the use of healthy coping and people first skills. Or better yet go, get a job” This is not constructive, realistic or practical advice. My therapist is excellent, covered by my insurance and was chosen after I had seen four different people several times each. I know I cope extremely well, given the stresses of daily life with young children. I don't excel, but I definitely cope. And, if I did not have people skills I would not have friends. (Like Gerald. Du-OH!) As for getting a job, I adressed that in my comment to the aftermentioned Gerald.

I wrote that last post at a certain moment, after a long, hot day, at about 10:00 PM, when I was tired and taken for granted. It was a moment, and yes, I was whiny and silly at that moment.

I am a tired now, and had another long, hot day, which included an ill-advised trip to Chuck E. Cheese to make a friend’s child happy. No-one was happy after the visit and I got a headache. Lesson learned. Whatever the late hour, I felt compelled to explain myself more effectively, if a bit long-windedly. Is “long-windedly” is even a word? I will have to research that, when I have a free moment, of course.

I have written before about the broken finger phenomenon. If one person has broken finger and another person has a broken arm, it doesn’t necessarily hold that the broken arm is more painful than the broken finger. To the person with the broken bone, size does not matter. The pain is real and present and hurts. Yes, I have a nice life, and even an easy life, but I still feel frustration and exhaustion at times. At those times, the pain is real and present and hurts. I see I picked the wrong place and time to vent that small hurt.

I will take some time off from this blog, and get back to it later.

Au revoir.