Check me out: I'm home alone

Greg took the kids to his friends house for a birthday party. Begrudgingly...but he did it.

He worked, then went to the junk yard for a "1/2 hour" which turned into 2 or more. Got home late and announced he didn't want to go to the party after all b/c he was tired. Sarah started crying immediately. She had looked forward to this all day. (And so had I.) Greg got mad at me for telling her about the party. I told him she was right next to me when I was on the phone with him about it and she was also with me when we went out specifically to get the birthday girl a gift card. So after a little hissy fit, he packed up both kids and left for the party.

I can not stand adults who break their promises to kids. I realize sometimes it happens (eh, like when one gets called to a birth), but at least have some compassion. Greg looked at me and said, "Why is she crying?"

Don't make me slap some sense into you. I told her I'd take her to the pool after I cleaned the credit union. That's when Greg decided he'd take them. I'm sure I'll hear bitching tomorrow about how incredibly tired he is because he worked, did the junkyard thing and then drove all over to this party. Whatever.

I cleaned the credit union. Still waiting on my client to have her baby. One of my new potential night-time baby sitters has all this home-life drama going on and is totally out of the picture. My sister is being very sweet and offering her assistance despite her work schedule. As in, she'd come over here at 3am and watch my kids til she had to go to work around 8 or 9am. That's very generous.

The last two weeks have been kind of difficult. I think I may have been (still am?) depressed. I never know when to use that term because for me, it's this sign of weakness that for past childhood reasons, I get completely manly and stupid about (the word). There was an interview passed onto me from salon.com about a new book called A Ghost in the House, about mothering and depression. And I liked the title because it fit the bill to some extent. It's meant as a depressed mother is a vacant mother. She's a ghost. A shell. It all made sense after I had spent a few days crying sporadically because I so completely resented spending every waking moment actively engaged with my children with little relief. Or at least not any real relief. Checking my emails for 5 minutes doesn't count. Cooking dinner and talking on the phone while being interrupted every 7 minutes doesn't count. Even hanging out with a friend and her children doesn't count because we're both still so engaged in mothering all the children.

It's hard. It's a viscious cycle of irritability, followed by resentment, followed by guilt (no loving parent could EVER resent the time spent with their children!). The guilt is followed by a pledge to be even more engaged with the children for being so annoyed by them in the first place.

For example: I make them both breakfast in the morning. Hook them up with watching a half hour of Arthur and then sit at the table with my peanut butter toast and coffee and whatever novel I'm reading. This should allow me 10 minutes of peace. Instead, without fail, my toast grows cold and stiff and my coffee cold with a layer on top because someone needs me to get them a drink. Or they want my toast. Or E. wants to nurse.

Then I get disgusted and don't eat. Drink my cold coffee and move on. Later when I'm bitchy thanks to low blood sugar and relentless demands for X,Y,Z I just want to scream. I usually don't. I just go into the cycle of irritability, resentment, guilt.

Greg's been gone a lot lately. Working. Doing what he does. I tried to sneak out of the house to go to the library for ONE HOUR and Sarah caught me. I told her what I was doing: going to the library to study (something I want to do 2-3 times a week now for NARM, for me). Ssssh! Don't tell Eamon, I'm going to try to sneak out. What does she do? She starts this high-pitched whine saying she wants to come to the library too. That she never gets to go (we go every week and she had been 2 days ago), she's bored. It's not fair that I get to go.

This of course, alerts Eamon who now wants me. He's tired and wants to nurse. Greg didn't sweetly take over and distract them. Instead he said, "Why don't we all get ice cream?" Excuse me?! I don't want to go anywhere as a family. I spend 14-15 hours a day completely on for the kids. I can't study while I'm home. Sarah whines even louder that she doesn't want ice cream, she wants to go to the library. Instead, no one goes anywhere but to the couch. Sarah is sniveling, Greg watching a documentary (ironically, about 2 men motorcycling around the world and what freedom they're enjoying!), Eamon falling asleep and nursing, and me, blinking back hot tears.

There have just been a lot of moments of absolutely-no-me-time. And I need Me time to be a good mama. I do. I've made peace with it. I refuse to feel guilty about it. I refuse to compare myself to other mothers. I don't think it's asking a lot. I just want to study~ which isn't even very soul-soothing, fun stuff, you know? I'm not out clubbing and drinking. I want to go to the fucking public library to read in peace. Forgive the language. It's me. Comes with the car, folks.

So here I am home alone and its nice. But as with most rare moments, one spends it not knowing quite what to do. I cleaned. I'm blogging freely. No one on my breast. No interruptions. No whines. Just the dog snoring near my feet and the hum of the air conditioner.

I'm going to find some food and lay in my bed and read a midwifery text book. However, if I weren't on-call, I would so totally walk down to the smoke-free brewery a block away and have a beer and read my novel. Ahhhh. That would be lovely.

Therapeutic blogging.