I’ll Eat When The Cheer Is Complete

At the beginning of this long holiday weekend, I was all I’m gonna turn a corner in my life. We’re gonna bring in some Christmas cheer and I’m gonna stop watching scary movies that prevent me from sleeping and I’m gonna get gift shopping done early sos I can kick back and enjoy watching this yule log of a year burn, baby, burn. Or something like that.

To kick off the holiday season right, but also so I could move on with my life, my husband and I watched our last 3 hours of The Haunting of Hill House right after the kids went to bed on Thanksgiving. Tis the season!! This show scared us so badly that we were dragging out the time between watching each episode and I just needed to rip this bandaid off right quick. Overall, I did enjoy the season even though I felt like it stole a few days from my life and they are now residing in the Red Room with everyone else.

The next day I asked my husband if he wanted to watch this one random movie I got from the library and he said foolishly said sure. I picked it up and showed it to him, and I have a disease, you guys. True to form, I had chosen a zombie flick because it had the word pandemic on it. It was called Alone, and it came out this year – how did I manage to miss this?! The movie was just okay, and it involved an interesting take on the classic zombie genre. Because my nerves were still fried from Hill House, I jumped way more than I should have, but I persevered, my friends. I don’t expect my family and friends to associate with a quitter.

So today – today – was for sure the day. We were gonna create some motherfucking cheer, goddamnit. We got up and had pancakes, which never fail to make my kids happy. We attended a surprise birthday car parade which was lovely and joyful. To continue the cheerful momentum, I hesitantly asked my husband not to freak out, but that I wanted to decorate for Christmas aaaaaand – gasp – play Christmas music. This, this is simply not done in our house. My husband has this thing where he won’t celebrate a holiday until the first of the month of said holiday. Lately, I’ve been asking him ever so sweetly to stop CRUSHING MY JOY when we see Christmas lights go up in the neighborhood or hear sleighbells on the television. Today, he graciously allowed me to usher in some gaiety after I shouted at him that THIS WAS ALL THE HOPE WE HAD LEFT.

I started getting the bins out and my kids actually helped put up some decorations. I left the fake, lit garlands I usually wrap around the banisters until last. I was getting a little peckish but I was determined to finish the job and so I pranced over and decided to plug them in – just to make sure they worked, you know, as a formality – before I strung them up. First one lit up the room. Excellent. The second – crap. Suddenly, my empty stomach felt cavernous. The dull, annoying headache I’d had pounded up my brainstem and beat me behind the eyes. Oh yeah, was it that time of the month too? WHY THE FUCK NOT?!

Not to be deterred in the slightest, I proceeded to expertly wiggle and jiggle each and every bulb, all while muttering devil-words under my breath. My husband could sense a change in the atmosphere in the house, and gingerly suggested I take a break and get something to eat. I’LL EAT WHEN THE CHEER IS COMPLETE was my rabid response.

Knowing my limits as a rational human being, I screamed at allowed my husband to take over to troubleshoot the light issue. Then, for reasons still unknown to me, I decided that only fools eat food or take breaks, and I proceeded to organize the liquor cabinet. This only enraged me more when I: 1) couldn’t reach the back of the cabinet and had to ask for help, and 2) couldn’t open a jar of 10 year old homemade booze that we’d never drink and had to ask for help, and 3) banged my head so hard on the open cabinet door that I had to stand there for a good 30 seconds to let the pain pass. Sigh.

After I Marie Kondo-ed the booze (it all sparked joy, save for the 10 year old Baileys that had chunks floating in it, may you rest in peace), I had enough good sense to make and eat some noodles. By that time, my husband had exhausted all options with the lights and he promptly ordered some new ones on the internet because he loves me and he effectively saved Christmas!!

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Day 28

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Motherhood has ruined me; I’m now comparing myself to butter.

I’m going to take this time and do some complaining.

I’ve been in a funk the past two days and maybe this will help. Maybe it won’t. But let’s try anyway, shall we?

Before I get started, I’d like to remind the internet that it’s possible, even normal, to possess two or more emotions at once. Yes, I’m complaining. I’m frustrated, I’m sad, I’m mad, I’m exhausted. That doesn’t also mean that I’m not (hashtag) grateful, full of joy, happy, fulfilled, etc. Moms get to complain sometimes and that doesn’t mean that I hate my kids. Not all the time, anyway.

I feel like motherhood hath turned me into a monster. I’m constantly cranky. I’m irritable. I’m so tired. Even when I get enough sleep, I’m tired. I’m drained. I’m so burned out. (burnt?) If this were a normal paying job, I’d be preparing my resume, putting in my two weeks.

I feel so used up.

You know how I (along with every other good therapist you’ll meet) preach about filling one’s bucket? It’s really hard when your bucket has a hole in it. Dear Liza.

I yell at everyone. All the time. I yell at my kids. I yell at my cat. When he gets home, I yell at my husband. I yell at myself. In my head. All day long.

I no longer have patience, or strength, to argue with a 4 year old about why he needs to PUT ON HIS FUCKING SHOES or EAT HIS GODDAMN DINNER. Instead of doing what I ask, he slumps to the floor in a pile of snot, tears, and belligerent evil. And then I have a hard time comforting him because IT’S TIME TO GO AND HE NEEDS HIS SHOES ON YESTERDAY.

I’m not myself. Anyone who has met me after having kids doesn’t really know me. I’m fun. I’m funny. I used to be a heck of a lot more carefree. Sure, I’m Type A, but now my borderline OCD has jumped the shark and I’m batshit cray. Case in point, I’ve Marie Kondoed my entire house and now I don’t know what to do with myself. Is she hiring? Moving to Japan sounds great right now.

I’m done being tied down by my kids. By this, I mean I want to schedule a yoga class whenever the fuck I want, without having to check with my husband to make sure someone is home keeping the kids alive. Oh yeah, I’m also done being a mom with no family around for hundreds of miles, who could theoretically swoop in and help me when I had a yoga-conflicting schedule. I’m thirdly done with not having piles of money to hire babysitters any time I’d like a break, which is all the time.

None of my clothes fit. Sure, my body isn’t quite where I want it to be, but that’s not the point. I don’t have clothes that fit the body I have at this moment. I pull and tug and complain and feel self-conscious. Like I have the money or the time to shop and own the clothes that would make me feel good about myself.

My body is falling apart. Pregnancy has mashed my internal organs around so much that I’m left with these odd GI symptoms that my doctor and I are trying to figure out what species of demon is lodged in there. My abdominal muscles have separated. I may or may not have some kind of food intolerance that never existed before. My eyesight is swirling down the toilet. I’m still having skin breakouts like I’m either pregnant or 13 years old (or both) and I’m so over this shit.

On one hand, I’m super motivated to get all this junk in check. Notice my anxiety wasn’t on the list of gripes above? Holy crap, for the time being it hasn’t been bothering me. Let’s all knock on some motherfucking wood together please. I went to therapy, I see my doctor, I make time for yoga, I try to run sometimes, I get out and see my friends. I shower, I read. I nap. Heck, I nap almost half the days just to get myself through them. I don’t have a choice, really. I’ve been Marie Kondoing because the act of organizing and the state of my house once it’s in order make me feel at peace. I get so much satisfaction from being able to control my surroundings and make them pretty. Ordered. Predictable. Accessible. Mine. In my world where so much is out of my control (especially two out-of-control toddlers), highlighting what I can control is super important to me.

But I digress. The point is that I’ve been working very hard on self care, especially these last two years.

I see progress in bits and pieces. I see how my job description is changing, little by little. Often, I don’t have to wipe the floor after breakfast anymore. My 4 year old goes to the bathroom completely on his own at the library. Like, I don’t even go in there with him anymore. Weeeird. My 2 year old puts on her own clothes. Really?! All these tiny reminders that as they claim more independence for themselves, I get more of my life back.

But man, it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

Irritability is always there for me when I get back from whatever little break I just had. Also, whatever motivation I get in little spurts gets quickly doused by the antics of my adorable children. I’d love to run and do yoga every day and get super fit (I just read that back and laughed. never would I “love to run,” like ever. but you know what I mean), but I can’t because my kids make getting out of the house feel like climbing a mountain. I’d love to open an Etsy store and paint one canvas every day, build some inventory. But there’s no way, at least not right now. I don’t have the energy, or I don’t have it consistently. I survive on a day-to-day and sometimes hour-to-hour basis. I do what I can, when I can. (like right now, writing this blog post. zing.)

I’m not sure how to end this. Should I try to end this on a positive note? I don’t really feel like it. This is where I’m at.

A quote from Lord of the Rings comes to mind:

“I feel thin. Stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread.”