I lose it this weekend. It doesn't happen often. But when it does it is ugly and sad and I weep and bury my head in my hands and insist that everything is too much. The kids! The chaos. The someone always needing something.
The animalness of Fruit Bat and Kitty Cat. The curious, babblyness of them. And I start to cry and have to go upstairs. But guilt sets in and I come down too soon and I am still not right. And am I scaring the children? I am scaring J., I know.
Fresh, hot tears and tension and anxiety.
Finally, I agree to drive around Seattle looking at ovens (we need one).
Talking to appliance sales people, one who is insufferable and one who tells me I don't look like I eat much fried chicken (if only she knew), but that if I ever DO want to make some, she has the perfect hood for the job. I feel better. More human. I almost, almost enjoy myself.
Back at home my throat closes in again. I try conversing with J. but have to stop because both kids are all over us. Talking and shrieking and laughing loudly. They're healthy, I think. They're fine. They're just boisterous. They're just 4 and 6. Why am I so ungrateful? Why can't I just enjoy this? Sometimes I do. Sometimes I look at Fruit Bat and Kitty Cat and think I made them. In my body. And I love them. And I'm so proud of who they are and what they've accomplished so far.
I clean bathrooms and we roast pumpkin seeds and this should be enough. But where is my serotonin? and please let this be hormonal and let it go away soon. Because I am not doing this very well and I am scaring everyone. Including myself.