Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Seriously, Dude, Seriously

I remember back in the day, sitting around in my back yard, daydreaming. I've wanted to be a wife and mother since, well, since I could remember. I loved to play mom and wife in my playhouse. I had it set up just so: fake food in the fridge, fake chicken and veggies bubbling away on the stove, clean lil pots and pans and plates put away in their cupboards, sweet baby dolls quietly napping away in their sweet little baby beds. Everything went smoothly. Dinner never got burnt, babies never cried, my fake husband (usually Donny Osmond or Keith Partridge) was happy happy happy and always made more than enough money to pay the bills and feed the kids. Life was good. Of course, the playhouse was a storage shed when I wasn't playing house, the kitchen set was metal and fake, my dolls were plastic, and my husband wasn't real, but I didn't let that stop me from enjoying this life and hoping it would be mine in real life one day.

Fast forward a few years, (ok, more than a few but who's counting??) I've got the house. It is barely big enough to contain all the crap we've collected over the years. One bathroom--nuff said. The kitchen is nice, but jeez, why can't it clean itself. And seriously, plastic food was much easier to cook. The kids are nutz. Their issues are many. They hate school. Two of the three have autism, they all have ADHD. And my husband---that's a whole other ball of wax. God knows I love the man.

I guess I'm just overfreakinwhelmed. I know I shouldn't be. There are women out there who work so much harder than I do. They have jobs. They cure cancer. My job?? To stay home, clean, cook, and take care of kids. How hard should this be??? Women have done it for years. In heels, backwards. No washing machine, dishwasher or even a car made available to them. These women wore dresses and hats. They wore makeup and their houses were spotless. Their children were well-behaved and listened to them. These women, they greeted their husbands at the door with his slippers and a drink. Heck, Paul is lucky if I greet him at all.

I feel like I just want to drop down, go to sleep and never wake up again. I'm tired. Tired all the time.

Why is this so hard for me??

If you figure it out, please let me know, because I don't have a clue.

1 comment:

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