When my husband comes home soon, I get to go into our poorly lit bedroom for a little bit (until our congested #2 needs to be nursed) and BE STILL, after a day of meeting our kiddies’ demands, without a playdate or an outing to break up the wintry hours.
It is comical to me, a Californian, how cold it is this week. It’s a joke. And it’s doing nothing for my VERY LOOSE plan to slim down before seeing my best friends. The husband is an enabler when he asked all on his own yesterday, the Day Micah Didn’t Nap, “Do you want me to get you your peanut butter/chocolate shake from your spot? I have to move the car anyways and you’ve had a rough day.” Even more ridiculous than this week’s arctic temps is that we still have to move our car. And yes, that is my usual “beverage” of choice.
Being at home with the kids makes me feel like I have multiple personalities. When I’m squeezing and kissing them, or watching the gorgeously fat-cheeked one beaming at the now-lean one, upside down, from his Boppy pillow, with a milky smile, I think, “I SO understand the Duggars. How can we stop at just two of these morsels?” Same for when I see the boys bonding, or #1 beaming at his music class or at Sunday School, or feeding me tons of imaginary food.
But when I still don’t have it together enough to plan and cook nutritious, delicious meals for them or run the home like a small preschool, all the while being a Proverbs 31 wifey, I feel like I am only surviving, not thriving. Not being the best mama I can be while blessed enough to be at home.
Or when I see myself, really see myself a la “Avatar,” on a day like today, dressing PURELY for comfort, wearing the same hole-y tore-up loose grey t-shirt and navy elastic pants that aren’t so elastic any more, with dried milk stains on or around the chest, smelling not unlike cheese because of said milk, and hair falling out of ponytail holder like I’m actually TRYING to look like the BEFORE on The Ricki Lake Show, makeover episode circa 1991, with my teef knocked out (not really, but the gheem I overate while waiting for the husband to make his entrance, makes it look like I lost a couple teeth), I think, “How am I gonna revamp myself to look and feel as presentable as working Jihee? To be motivated in the mornings to not be a slob just because I knew we weren’t going out at all today?” Big ups to my hair, though, steadfastly thick and sustaining a gal through some blah moments, though not able to be held in place.
During this free time, I should finish at least one of the Christian books I’ve started.
I should at least START the book on toilet training that I procured from the library. But how does one read more on parenting after a whole day of parenting? NO THANK YOU!
We really should change the lighting in our home to not look like we’re filming a PSA against domestic violence here.
We really should do something about the clutter that enrages me yet never goes away completely. We just seem to rearrange shit into different corners of the home, a stupid game of Hide-and-Seek, where everything is actually in plain view.
We really need to move into bigger space. Already. After having bought this place so recently (Sept. 2010). But the bank is so unreasonable, not willing to accept Monopoly money for the monthly mortgage and maintenance payments.
All I want to do is tune out for a bit and be on this heavy laptop that Micah forbids me from using during the day, tune out by reading a blog I found called “People I Want to Punch in the Face.” Today, I want to add to that list “people with unlimited free time.”
My time is up. I didn’t get to read that blog but at least I got to type a sliver of my own thoughts. And yes, I know this is all just a season and soon I will find my groove and I need to be kinder and more patient with my self, blah blah. Let a girl get her therapy on via blog, though, won’t you, please, my dear seven readers? Peace.