Every afternoon there comes a time when I am positive I will not make it through the night. The time the realization hits varies, but not the feeling. I know I’m mentally ill (and the fact that I know that might make me less so) but surely I am not the only parent, barricaded in my domicile, that feels so overwhelmed by this collection of tasks that seem so deceptively simple – after school activities, dinner, homework, shower, wash hair, story, bed. It’s not rocket science for fuck’s sake (and lucky it isn’t because I would suck even worse at it.)
I like penises as much as the next girl. Probably more. But I’m so sick of elementary school penis jokes. The nine-year old is in a phase, and I know I should be more patient, but the eight-year old giggles and eggs him on and eventually I start to feel like I’m on the set of the Benny Hill Show. I’m grateful that my kids are funny, they both have great senses of humor, but I constantly have to stop them from pole-vaulting over the line of taste, decency and respect. There’s only so many times you can hear the popular trope “Yo Momma” before you start to wonder where you went wrong as a parent.
Who’s raising these kids? I fume. And then I remember, Oh yeah, it’s me.
I want so badly to escape. But to where? It’s not like there’s anything else so special I could be doing right now, I’d probably just be watching Netflix and wondering why I’m so lonely. Is this all this is? A desire to escape? From what? Perhaps from screaming, taunting, whining, fighting, complaining then the next moment cracking up, laughing and playing; children are like un-medicated schizophrenics, and yet for some reason I’m not legally allowed to restrain them.
I want so badly to enjoy how much they need me right now, but it’s hard to enjoy having your blood sucked from your veins.
I hear my heartbeat.
I love my children.
There is nothing missing.