Last night, while flipping through catalogs trying to figure out what to do about Christmas gifts for the kids (haven’t done ANYTHING) I start getting upset (hello PMS) and talking to the Huz about all the guilt I’m feeling lately for not being Super Mom or even her distant cousin Mediocre Mom. I continue on, covering the following bulletpoints of guilt for:
• not doing the same things for my son that I did for my daughter.
• not being as motivated to get out with him and, you know, expand his horizons.
• not spending more one-on-one time with TQ.
• staying up too late, too often and then being so tired the next day that my primary and only goal for the day is to have a nap as soon as P goes down for his nap.
Yeah, I spilled my guts and told him about all the rationalizations I’ve been making and all the lazyass shortcuts I’ve been taking; all the ways in which I am sucking at my job as a stay-at-home mom lately, so forth and so on.
I finally take a breath after my self-inflicted diatribe of guilty confessions and criticism, I and look over at him for some sort of reaction and HE’S FRIGGIN’ ASLEEP!
But NOT deeply asleep, he insists, after I screech at him to wake up.
Says he heard MOST of what I said.
Oh, REALLY? Did you miss the part about my fatal disease? That I only have ten days to live? Hmmm? Yeah…that’ll learn ya!
Meh. He doesn’t care that I’m dying. He just tells me I’m being too tough on myself and that two kids are harder than one and you can’t do it all, all the time.
Well. He sure knocked the wind out my pissy missy sails, didn’t he? Who the hell does he think he is being all wise like that? Fricken Deepak Chopra? Hmmmph.