My mom took my kids to her house this morning. She lives two hours away and in the town that I grew up in. I am super pumped to have a night without my kids, though my son did plug up the toilet in the main bathroom before leaving, which just goes to show you that you can never truly escape your kids.
I’ve tried to plunge the toilet twice to no avail, other than almost flooding the bathroom. Alas I turned off the water. I figure the stench would be a nice way to greet my husband when he gets home from work tonight.
“Hi honey! The kids are gone! Let’s be irresponsible! One catch — the house smells like shit!”
I don’t know. Not a very sexy angle. Maybe I’ll cook something to disguise the smell so at least it’s not the first things he smells.
Nah. I don’t feel like lifting a finger tonight. I’ll light a candlelight. Because that seems like a nice half-assed approach to the situation.
Since my mom left I’ve done nothing but tidy and wander around in circles and avoid the treadmill that I intended to get on three and a half hours ago. Given I am not being interrupted by anyone, there is still hope I’ll get to it. But I wanted to blog first.
I’ve done a lot of talking this week — to my therapist, to a new writing mentor, to my mom and grandma, and to anyone else willing to listen to me. I have purged thoughts out of my mind left and right as I try to organize the voices in my head and figure out where to go next with my life as mommy and my life as a writer and a person whose mental health demands self-care.
One thing my new mentor said to me was that it’s like I need some “white space” between motherhood and writing/self-care. At first I wasn’t sure what she meant, but when she likened it to the white space at the end of a chapter in a book before a new chapter begins it made sense. I need to wrap up one thing before I start the next.
As I am switching back and forth from motherhood to my writerly/self-care life, I need a little white space to keep my frustration at bay. Because let me tell you, I am frustrated. I am trying to take care of my kids and write and take care of myself without a schedule or any distance between tasks. It’s been a bit of a clusterfuck, if you will.
The result has basically been me getting irritated at my kids for interrupting my thoughts while writing, and me getting irritated by my writing thoughts while taking care of my kids.
My whole fucking mind is like a crock pot of irritation, trying to cook up something good, but the flavors aren’t blending well and some ingredients are clearly missing. And I am really starting to get on my own nerves.
I am going to work on a schedule, a plan, and some goals so I can feel satisfied with both of my worlds without them irritating me. Rather, I want my worlds to simmer together nicely and not worry about what it’ll all taste like when it’s time for dinner.
(Ok, this whole crock pot thing is starting to get weird. I’ll put a lid on it now).
My mom sent me a text when she got to her house that said, “Made it. Call you later.”
I wanted to respond with a million questions. Did the kids eat their snack in the car? Did anyone sleep? Were they good? Did anyone have to pee? Did you have to give them the emergency lollipops I put in your purse before you left if they got unruly?
Instead I wrote, “Ok.”
Because I decided I. DON’T. WANT. TO. KNOW.
I am getting one night away from them and as long as they are alive I don’t want to know the answers to all of those questions. I don’t want to know if anyone cries later or if they fight or if they don’t eat their dinner or if they don’t settle down at bedtime. I don’t want to know.
Tomorrow evening, I’ll drive up and join them at my mom’s, and I’ll look forward to hearing their stories, but I don’t want to know all the details of their every minute at my moms.
I am going to go take an uninterrupted shower now, because not running on the treadmill obviously calls for one. Maybe I’ll write more later. Or journal. Or read something other than a children’s book. Or organize my closet. Or rock out to some non-kid music. Or romantically fix the toilet with my husband. Or maybe I’ll simply close my eyes and go to bed early and enjoy the silence.