I am sapped.
I do not know how full-time working mothers do it. How do they do it? How do they meet everyones needs (not to mention their own) without losing every sane bone in their body? How?
I work from home. From home.
I work part-time, from home.
[And no, I'm not interested in getting into the STAHM vs WAHM vs Working Mom debate, not interested at all.]
I've worked, part-time, from home, for about a year and a half and while it's a big help financially and really the ideal situation for us, for the right now, I blow at it. That's right, I blow. I'm not talking about my job - the one that gives a paycheck - I'm talking about the whole big fat huge gigantic stinking picture that is me. Me, the mom.
Take this week, for example, this week I worked 6 days in a row. Would you like to see the laundry that I at least folded but didn't manage to put away? It is sitting here, in my "office space" on a spare couch, waiting. Would you like to speak to my sullen "pretweenager" who is currently on the warpath because I will not let him watch television while he does his homework? He lost the ability to multi-task after he'd been asked 3 times. He hates me. He wants me to run him to the pet store and buy more fish food because he is suddenly out and what a horrible mother I'd be if I let his fish go a day without food.
What a horrible mother.
[I did happen to watch season 1 of Weeds on the netflix website though...]
Truth is, I feel like fish food.
The cold that the kids brought home from school is lingering in my chest. My fingertips are still green from the dry erase marker incident in Katie's kindergarten classroom Friday morning. I have papers to fill out and return from curriculum night and my family has not seen a homemade meal too many days.
My husband leaves and goes to work. Goes to an office space without children and dogs and laundry staring him in the eye. I sit in an office space with children and dogs and laundry staring me in the eye. Oh, how I want to switch places with him some days. What I wouldn't give...
Doors shut angrily. Sighs are heard and I know more eyerolling is going on behind my back than I care to acknowledge at this point.
The middle child is tired from a sleepover and showing it in the way he responds to his little sisters requests. I know little sisters are a pain but can't they just get along? Just for one afternoon? Isn't this what Sundays are for, nothing? Why, on the one day of the week that requires nothing, do my kids suddenly want to pull me in thirty different directions? All I want to do is crawl back under the covers and wait for bedtime when I can slurp some Nyquil and call it a day.
But dammit, fish food.
Waffles. They've had waffles with peanut butter, waffles with jelly, waffles with bananas and syrup. I sure hope waffles are a food group all of their own at this point because waffles it is and will be until I can make a decent dinner not consisting of waffles.
I'm thinking corn dogs.
I'll breathe, I'll put that laundry away and bite the insides of my cheeks as I ask that child of mine if he is done with his homework yet. I'll cut up some veggies for a snack and plaster a smile on a face that really, really feels like it wants to frown. I'll be happy that I'm alive, that the sun is shining and that we have all that we do (mainly that we have each other) because dammit, life really isn't that bad or that hard and if I have them, I have everything I need.
And I'll still want to switch places with my husband.
Which doesn't make me a bad mother.
But it might make me fish food if I let it.