My fatigue is bordering on depression.
Emily has been sleeping through the night, and I am getting 7-8 hours of mostly uninterrupted sleep, but I am deeply exhausted.
If I lived in Victorian times, I probably would have taken to my bed for a few weeks, propped up on pillows and served by my house staff hand and foot. A dose of morphine might have been given to me to take the edge off. The neighborhood would have buzzed with concerns for my health and even the possibility that- gasp!- I might not make it. Eventually I would have recovered enough to be taken out to sit in the sun for a few hours a day, and after another few weeks of that, maybe my children could come and visit me for a few minutes. But only for a few minutes! And only very quiet, mild behavior, because no one would want to upset my fragile recovery from that awful, consumptive, exhaustion.
Of course I do not live in Victorian times. I live in this time of full-time working woman with the second and third jobs of being wife and mother. I live in a time of impossibly messy apartment and difficult child. I live in a time of “why do my carpets smell like urine, did Emily pee out here?”
I don’t want to wash my hair. I don’t want to pick up toys. I don’t want to go grocery shopping. I don’t want to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches or slice strawberries. I just don’t wanna.
All these “don’t wannas” pose the question, “what would I like to be doing?” Honestly, I don’t know. Maybe just sit still next to the ocean by myself.
I look at the piles of laundry and the filth on my kitchen floor and am plagued by the thought that I just can’t keep up. I’m a failure. A fraud. A crappy mom. A snarky wife. A neglectful friend. An ill-tempered co-worker.
In short, I suck.
Jack has been in a very tricky and angry mood over the last week, after about three weeks of perfect behavior. I think he is anxious about the end of the school year and the transition to summer-mode, which means a new daycare scenario, etc. His behavior is usually his way of communicating stress. But oh, man, I just don’t have the energy to deal with it.
And it doesn’t help that my husband has a case of “Man Flu” that just seems to be lingering on and on.
I am so tired I don’t even have the energy for a good, frustrated cry. But in my dreams at night, that is all I do. I walk around crying, weeping, sobbing into my subconscious.
It isn’t that I lack supports. We are so fortunate to live close to both sets of grandparents who drop everything at a moment’s notice to help out. I have good friends who are always willing to listen. I have a husband who is generally supportive and helpful. It is just this sense of not being able to balance it all that pushes me near the edge.
Sometimes I dread the weekends. I dread being home with my family because I have to worry about what to feed them, how to entertain them, when to clean up after them. I stress over chasing around after Emily who is more mobile and fast every day. I am fraught with Jack’s behavior.
How is it easier to be at work, dealing with the woes of humanity, than to be home enjoying my sweet family?
Does this make me a jerk? I have so much more than so many, yet fight to appreciate it on some days.
I haven’t written a real whiney bummer of a post in a few months. I apologize for not having something more delightful to say, but I’ve got to be honest– I am just worn down to nothing today. Maybe tomorrow I will feel better, but today I am telling you the truth that I just can’t say anything else besides how bone-weary I am.
At least I’m not a liar.
Now to get up and transfer laundry from washer to dryer.