I haven’t written for a while because I read a blog post about blog posts. It said, of course, that if you want your blog to be well-read, you have to have a picture in your post every time.
Well, I don’t have pictures here, and I stopped writing. But you know what? I don’t care any more. If no one ever reads this, that’s fine. This blog is for ME.
So I can think.
This is another one of those days. A day when I feel horrid, and overwhelmed, and angry with the mess and the responsibility of being a mom who stays home. (My husband is so supportive and helpful, so all this guilt is coming from inside of me, not from him.)
I feel pulled in all different directions: keeping a cozy home (which sounds heavenly to me), keeping my kids growing into lovely adults, and keeping my own interests afloat. I have lots of interests, and I love pursuing them. One of them is even generating a teeny bit of income, and it’s the one I really want to put all my time and energy into. But then I look at the dirty dishes, and I realize that it will have to wait.
And then I get angry at the dishes. Then angry at myself for not just doing them. Then guilty for wanting to work instead of work on my home.
I also forget to eat a lot, which is silly because my mood is directly related to my food intake. If my blood sugar gets too low, I start to melt down.
And, my husband informs me when I wail to him that It’s all so hard today, it’s that time of the month. That couple of days in the middle when I want to sleep and cry and can’t understand why life is so hard.
So maybe I should just leave the mess, just for tonight. And maybe I should do the thing I love, and maybe I should give myself a break. Just for tonight. Just until my body isn’t fighting me and making me think that everything is too. damn. hard. today.
And then there’s my friend. My life is not hard; hers is. Not mine. I read her beautiful blog, and I want to cry for her. I have cried for her so many times since her son was diagnosed with leukemia. It’s not fair, and she can’t control it, and he is suffering in the hopes of becoming well again some day. He is the same age as my small sons, and he is suffering.
And then I feel like a jerk for complaining about a stupid messy house. Because it’s just a mess, and it’s just a house.
But then I remember this, and I stop — for a millisecond — I stop being so hard on myself. I’m allowed to have bad days, too, even if they’re stupid.
But my goodness, I need some perspective sometimes.