They can't all be good days.

     I woke up in a bad mood today. Despite going to bed at 9:00 last night, I hardly slept. Sometime overnight my usually comfy (albeit crowded) bed morphed into a lumpy sac of potatoes and my pillow into lava rock. Co-sleeping with my 6’2” husband, 3 year old and 8 month old doesn’t help. The baby had one of those nights where she needed to breastfeed not several times a night, but actually sleep attached to me, preventing any movement on my part lest I move her and elicit a window rattling howl. This night was heavy on the tossing and turning for everyone (imagine our bed as a rock tumbler with 4 rocks ranging from 20 to 210 pounds), and even included some sudden Rottweiler-like jaw clamps mid-nursing from 2 needle-like baby teeth. The moment the ethereal morning sunshine peered through my curtains, I heard the birds sing and longed to stretch my arms over my head and savor the magic of being alive, but instead I buried my face in my pillow and thought “Ah, %&$!.” 

No worries, I hate personal space anyway.

 
   I thought maybe a strong cup of coffee would conquer my stiff neck, aching back and intense desire to lock my children in the dog kennel leaving me free to curl in a ball and sleep forever. Unfortunately after finishing one cup I only felt slightly less like murdering everything, so I made another. This was enough to give me the shakes and to capture the same gloomy, erratic emptiness most people need a 4 day amphetamine binge to experience. The teeny tiny probably anemic eternal optimist inside of me suggested I pour my heart into the care of my children and wait for the good vibes to start vibrating vigorously enough for me to feel them.

     Lately I’ve been really into the idea of doing Montessori pre-school at home. As a stay at home mother I’m really into concocting complex schemes of things I’ll do to make my life fulfilling and more Pottery Barn catalogue-esque. For weeks I’ve formulated an elaborate plan where I miraculously convert our box-packed storage room into a stimulating Montessori classroom and dedicate my life to educating my children, selflessly giving them each the gift of a bright future, brilliant mind and eternal happiness. The actual progress I’ve made includes reading one chapter of a Montessori book and trying not to bitch about Holden using way too much water when he watercolors. I thought “art time” this morning would be a good way to structure our day and alleviate my guilt for isolating my 3 year old at home (because according to my FB feed every other child on earth proudly started preschool yesterday) but all my OCD control-freak tendencies clashed with my son’s unstoppable drive to use a $%&* ton of water, smear black paint all over the other color palettes, and routinely run to the kitchen and beg dramatically for fruit snacks. To make a long story short, art time wasn’t especially therapeutic for anyone. 

"IT'S RINSE, DAB, THEN CHOOSE A PAINT COLOR...DON'T YOU TAKE ANY PRIDE IN YOUR WORK!?" 

     I decided it was best that we vacate the premises, and felt hopeful that some fresh air and exercise would remedy my condition. I put on my pants, one accessory and makeup. The accessory I chose was a scarf, because if the first scarf of autumn doesn't rocket you to planet euphoria, what will? It turns out a brisk walk to the park was exactly what I needed to focus on how cumbersome baby wearing while pushing a stroller is, how uncomfortable it is to be out of pajamas, and how out of shape I must be if the exertion required to walk 4 blocks felt like riding the tour de france with one leg. Once we arrived at the park I had the chance to compare myself to the thinner, more engaged and loving parents, and make a mental list of the endless menial tasks (groceries, laundry, dinner, dishes, bills etc) that are closing in on and suffocating me at all times. 

     On the walk home I tried really hard to change my self talk. We all have days where our inner Eeyore puts up more of a fight than others. Logically I was aware I really love my life and usually it doesn’t make me feel trapped in a claustrophobic fog of hopelessness and negativity. Surely it’s the night of poor sleep talking. Time for some self care. What would really make me feel better? My ultimate fantasy vividly flashed before my eyes, and I’ve chosen to share it with you, but in my next post because right now my children are screaming about hunger and other essential needs. So for now, we all have something to look forward to.