Sometimes, I look around and wonder how I have ever managed to delude myself even for a moment into thinking that I can do this. Alone. The empties in the garage. The flies in the kitchen. Shampooing the carpet. Tidying the various kid paraphernalia from the floor a multitude of times per day. Explaining why hitting isn't a form of communication that I'd like the kids to practice. Driving to playdates. Fixing the screen door. Attending doctor's appointments....All things I did before, but now, I don't think I can do all of it. I have no reprieve. Unless I ask. I am embarassed to ask. Don't want to burden anyone. Help is only temporary anyhow. I feel less guilty if I do it myself. But more burdened.
I want a break. A holiday. How? From what? I only have to come back. I can't escape what has happened. I can't avoid the inevitable responsibilities. I can't eschew the emotions.
I am a sour and foul tempered mother. I want to be alone. I want time to myself. I crave silence. I fantasize about not having to perform these small mundane tasks in an endless cycle. I feel guilty for feeling this way. It makes me want to hold the little ones close and assure them that I do love them so very much. Is there room to love two little people so thoroughly and intensely but to need and desire time away from them and the responsibilities? I feel awful even admitting it. I do. I love them so fiercely. But I am tired. And missing their daddy. And his support.
The Silencing of a Poet
1 day ago