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Confessions
Jun. 6th, 2006 01:28 pmI've been going through a bit of an emotional slump lately, feeling alternately lethargic and guilty and frustrated, sometimes all at the same time. Luke is really, really exhausting. I love him, but honestly it's really hard to like him sometimes. If he gets into one of his tantrum states, no amount of gentle persuasion and comfort does anything to calm him, and I'm always losing my temper at him. It leaks out at Emma as well, particularly when she's letting out one of her shrill, nails-on-the-chalkboard screams. On Saturday, Luke had that perpetual hacking cough again, and Emma was cranky from refusing to nap, and my husband and I were just at our wit's end. We were ready to call someone up to just take the children away for a day, before we committed frightful acts of violence.
Hence the guilt. Some days I feel like the dictionary definition of a bad mother.
Confession: When I'm getting Luke ready for school in the morning and he doesn't want to touch his cereal or get his shoes on or let me pry him away from his truck, I yell at him. In a harsh, sarcastic voice. When he cries, I feel bad - and yell more, because I'm angry at myself and I can't shout at me.
Confession: Some days, like today, I spend the morning in productive activities such as washing dishes, folding laundry, taking the kids outside the play. Most days I muck about on the computer, let the kids do whatever the heck they please, and get about as much exercise as a rock.
Confession: I have no schedule whatsoever. The kids don't have craft time, or outside playtime, or singing time, or reading time, or snack time, or even much of mealtime most days. When Emma screams for a cracker, I think "Oh, yeah, she's probably hungry by now" and dump a bunch of crackers on the floor. Maybe I sweep up the crumbs; maybe I don't. I finally throw a lunch together when I realize I'm hungry. Emma's naptime is so haphazard, no wonder she doesn't take it half the time.
Confession: My house is crammed with clutter, in corners, under desks and tables, in closets...oh, don't even mention under the bed. Most things are shoved into boxes rather than pleasant, labeled platstic containers or drawers or cabinets. Dust bunnies and stains on the floor abound. I don't think of, let alone look at, the Space Behind the Oven or the Black Hole Under the Couch. I keep the house moderately tidy, but it's like putting a band-aid over a festering wound. Our house won't really be clean until we move out, and then it'll all be transferred to our new trash dump. Er, home.
Confession: I have to call several different doctors, dentists, optometrists and specialists of other sorts to see me or my children for various reasons - mostly checkups, no big deal. But I hate phone calls, and I really hate how I'll have to explain to most of them that it's been way, way too long since we've seen them, that I end up just stretching out the wait and cringing about it all the time. I just made a bunch of calls this morning, and it's just the tip of the iceberg. Cringe, cringe, cringe.
Confession: I have no close friends nearby. I ought to reach out and make some - heaven knows I need the human interaction - but I'd rather lock myself further in my little comfort zone and live like a hermit. I'm going to forget how to have conversations pretty soon. And I just can't bring myself to do anything about it.
blah. Am I really that horrible a person? Put this way, I feel full of holes.
Hence the guilt. Some days I feel like the dictionary definition of a bad mother.
Confession: When I'm getting Luke ready for school in the morning and he doesn't want to touch his cereal or get his shoes on or let me pry him away from his truck, I yell at him. In a harsh, sarcastic voice. When he cries, I feel bad - and yell more, because I'm angry at myself and I can't shout at me.
Confession: Some days, like today, I spend the morning in productive activities such as washing dishes, folding laundry, taking the kids outside the play. Most days I muck about on the computer, let the kids do whatever the heck they please, and get about as much exercise as a rock.
Confession: I have no schedule whatsoever. The kids don't have craft time, or outside playtime, or singing time, or reading time, or snack time, or even much of mealtime most days. When Emma screams for a cracker, I think "Oh, yeah, she's probably hungry by now" and dump a bunch of crackers on the floor. Maybe I sweep up the crumbs; maybe I don't. I finally throw a lunch together when I realize I'm hungry. Emma's naptime is so haphazard, no wonder she doesn't take it half the time.
Confession: My house is crammed with clutter, in corners, under desks and tables, in closets...oh, don't even mention under the bed. Most things are shoved into boxes rather than pleasant, labeled platstic containers or drawers or cabinets. Dust bunnies and stains on the floor abound. I don't think of, let alone look at, the Space Behind the Oven or the Black Hole Under the Couch. I keep the house moderately tidy, but it's like putting a band-aid over a festering wound. Our house won't really be clean until we move out, and then it'll all be transferred to our new trash dump. Er, home.
Confession: I have to call several different doctors, dentists, optometrists and specialists of other sorts to see me or my children for various reasons - mostly checkups, no big deal. But I hate phone calls, and I really hate how I'll have to explain to most of them that it's been way, way too long since we've seen them, that I end up just stretching out the wait and cringing about it all the time. I just made a bunch of calls this morning, and it's just the tip of the iceberg. Cringe, cringe, cringe.
Confession: I have no close friends nearby. I ought to reach out and make some - heaven knows I need the human interaction - but I'd rather lock myself further in my little comfort zone and live like a hermit. I'm going to forget how to have conversations pretty soon. And I just can't bring myself to do anything about it.
blah. Am I really that horrible a person? Put this way, I feel full of holes.
