I wrote this last week
when I was going through a bit of a bad patch.
It seemed like the end of the world at the time, but reading back over
it now, before posting, it seems to have lost its air of hopelessness.
I have a
severe case of couldn’t be arsed-it is.
One of those ones that just sneaks up on you. One day I was grand, running for Ireland and
not feeling too deprived at being on a Lenten fast. Then from out of nowhere, bam! I feel like a
deflated balloon, I have no energy and just couldn’t be bothered. I feel guilty because I didn’t go for a run
this evening and now, as I type, I am stuffing my face with toast and Nutella
Chocolate Spread. Fuck off Davina (McCaul) and Ruth (Field, author of Run Fat B!tch Run), I have a new best
friend. It’s called chocolate. I feel
like shite because today I roared at Screecher Creature No. 3 who is only a
little over two and a half. And in
typical I-need-lots-of-reassurance fashion, he has spent the afternoon hugging
the shit out of me. I feel like a bad
mother because I let the baby sleep for over two hours in his rock-a-tot this
morning. He is too big for the seat but
we don’t have anything else at the moment and as he has the cold from hell, sleeping
upright is the only way he can breathe without being suffocated in his own
snot. He has been waking up every couple
of hours each night this week and nursing like a newborn which is why I am so
bastard tired. Things have come full
circle for the fourth time and I recognise that he has reached that awareness
of “shite! She’s not a part of me and
must not be let out of my sight, even for a second,”
stage. Touched out? Jesus that’s only the beginning. I’m pissed off because, for the moment, I’ve
had to give up my breakfast coffee and scone in the coffee shop. And I miss my simple, daily interaction with
the other patrons. Some days, most days,
it is the only adult conversation I get.
I can literally feel my brain cells, on these self-pitying days, keel
over and die from lack of stimulation. I am hugely dis-agreeable because last Friday
I was unable to give five euros towards the schools voluntary
contribution. The next day, Saturday,
Mister Husband and I, raided money boxes and scrabbled about on the floor of
the car to scrape together four euros for a gym fee. I’m pissed off because I didn’t bring
Screecher Creature Numbers three and four to the doctor over the last fortnight
because I didn’t have the money for it.
Although, small consolation this morning; the GP cards which we applied
for almost a year ago, arrived in the post.
A week too late for Screecher Creature No. 4 who broke out in a
frightening head to toe rash last Thursday.
I’m stressed out and pissed off at myself mainly. Six years ago I jumped in at the deep end with
this parenthood lark and I stayed there.
I never did find the delicate balance between being a mother and a
person in my own right. And now I fear
it’s too late. I’ve been “capable” and
in charge for so long, I don’t think I know how to let go myself. Noise levels are hurting my too sensitive
brain. The kids and their never-ending
demands make me want to run for the hills.
Patience levels are at an all-time low.
Feelings of claustrophobia, anger, resentment, frustration, boredom,
hopelessness and that all-encompassing bastard, tiredness, jangle my already
tattered nerves and threaten to detonate an already simmering person. There is no respite. I hate myself because lately every day I wish
the next five years would just go by in a flash. I have no time for those who tell me not to
wish it away. They have come out the
other side and find it easy to talk. I do wish it away. I think we all do at some stage. I had
a little moment this morning and cried at breakfast. Part of me panicked and worried that it
wasn’t my heart beating like mad but depression thumping to get back in. This afternoon when I found myself running to
the bedroom to grab a pillow, stuff my face into it and scream as loudly as I
could, it wasn’t depression I feared, but madness. I thought of the people who have approached
me about my blog and used the word admire when speaking of the Serious Stuff
and I thought how’s that for honesty. Screaming your head off into a pillow at 4pm
of an afternoon. A glorious, sunny, March
afternoon at that. And in the midst of
it all how can I explain what is wrong without sounding like a total and utter,
drama queen, bitch diva? Mister Husband
has the world and his wife sitting on his shoulders with work at the moment and
an illness in the family. How can I tell
him what I am feeling in the face of that?
How can I tell him that I wanted to run for the hills and never stop
when it would be a slap in the face to him and all that he has worked for, to
give us? But you know what; I think it’s
ok to feel like this. Tomorrow will be another day and I will either
still feel like shit or I’ll have gotten over myself. The baby will peer at me through the bars of
the cot, fuzzy red hair sticking up all over the place, dried snot all over his
little face and perfect teeth flashing at me, a little hand reaching out through
the bars, fingers wiggling hello. Maybe
he will make everything ok again and I’ll get up and get on with things the way
I always do. The way I have to because
we all have our crap moments. Children’s
allowance is in on Tuesday and we’ll be grand for another couple of weeks until
something else turns up. Easter holidays
are next week too. Part of me is
dreading them but if the weather is anything like it has been this week so far,
we can do anything we want to. Maybe
even go swimming. The Screecher
Creatures would love that! It’s ok to
feel like crap. And it’s ok to admit to
it. I suppose it’s what we do about it
that’s the main thing. For me, a banshee
scream into a pillow helps (slightly). I
touched, very broadly on this at Group on Tuesday. I mentioned that I am finding it all a bit
much at the moment and am struggling to enjoy it when one of the other lovely
mothers said “thank God. I thought I was
the only one who felt like that!” Looks
like I’m in good company! On Thursday,
in an effort to outrun the blues, I went to Carlow. The Screecher Creatures were playing in a
ride on bus when a little girl approached.
There was plenty of room so I invited her on to be the bus driver and I got
talking to her mother. Aoife is a four year old twin with a nine year old big
brother. The gap, her mother confided,
was a nice one especially when the girls arrived. And then I heard a loud and distinct echo. “There were days,” Aoife’s mammy said, “when
I cried more than they did.” Words I have spoken out loud myself. It was weird and strangely comforting to hear
someone else say them. There was a
moment of companionable silent agreement.
It all passes though, Aoife’s mammy told me. “It’s hard when you’re in the thick of it and
you think it will never end, but it does.”
Thank you, Aoife’s mammy. And
thank you to all the wonderful mothers I have had the massive fortune to meet
on “off” days such as the ones I have been feeling this week.
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