You know those times you’re walking around your house and your shoes stick to the floor, and you’re like, “Ew. I wonder what that was?” Or the times your shoes stick to the floor, and you’re like, “Yeah. That’s dried pee from when the baby peed in her bed at four this morning and then walked around the house.” The only thing I can say about that is it’s better than washing spaghetti barf out of your sheets at 2am because she was sick and you were worried about her so you put her in your bed because her fever was over 104 and you wanted to make sure she didn’t seize or anything awful like that. Then she barfs up the spaghetti you forced her to eat for supper, even though she told you she wasn’t hungry.I guess that’s what I get for that one.
These are just the latest in a string of events over the last couple of weeks.
A water spigot outside burst and was spewing water all over the place. I had to call and tell my husband so he could miss a day of work and come fix it. Plumbing isn’t in my skill set.
The van broke and cost $250 to fix.
I’ve had two out of three children in the doctor’s office in the last week. Refer to above re: barfing in my bed.
On top of all that, I’m terribly behind on my chore list. God forbid, I don’t get all my chores done in time. I’m not sure why I worry about it, though. It’s not like they’re going to fire me. (I am a little bothered by dried urine on my floors, though.)
It’s no wonder I want to scream. Loud. A lot. For a long time.
I’ve been having trouble accessing my compassion lately. I consider one of my best qualities to be that I’m able to see myself in other people. “Remember that the other person is you.” I really try to do this, and I think it’s one of the most important and best qualities I’m attempting to impart to my children. I can almost always do this. I feel like it makes me one of the most understanding, least judgmental people I know. (In case I’m coming off too arrogant here, rest assured, there’s plenty of stuff about myself I don’t like.)
I know there are just so many many people who have it so much worse than I do, I get that. I also know that in the over 2 1/2 years since my littlest nugget was born, I have had one night on my own, free from children. I can count on both hands the number of times I’ve left the house by myself to do anything (besides run to the grocery store) that wasn’t my weekly yoga class (that I teach to eating disorder patients). I haven’t had a girls’, moms’, friends’ night out in…years.
In my house, I’m responsible for pretty much everything.
All the laundry. All the cleaning. All the appointments. All the breakfast-cooking and lunch-making. Most of the dish-washing.
I don’t mind my job. I don’t mind doing chores. I, weirdly, actually enjoy vacuuming.
But I need a break. I need a chance to regroup. I need time to think about my future, when my life isn’t consumed with little people and chores and puppy dogs. I understand that one day, all too soon, they won’t need me as much anymore. I’m gonna need something else to do. I like to keep busy, and to feel like I’m contributing to the world in some way.
They say you can’t pour from an empty cup, and man, is my cup empty.
I don’t need much, just a couple of guilt-free hours here and there. I need a little bit of time to be kind to myself, so I can find my compassion for others.