It's 8 AM on a Monday. I am tired. Coffee isn't helping. The baby has fallen asleep for nap #1 (on my chest of course), which makes sense since she's been up since 5:30 and was up every 2-3 hours before that. I am sitting on my couch with my laptop and half a scone, and I am about 30 seconds away from a meltdown.
So what do I do? I make a joke.
I IM a friend and say "So, DH seems to think this SAHM gig includes house cleaning."
And she LOLs. And I start to cry.
I want to keep my house impeccably clean. I want to make gourmet meals and decorate beautiful cakes. I want to have romantic date nights and deep, intellectual discussions with my husband. I want to spend every awake minute of my daughter's life talking to and playing with and singing to her. I want to be able to run a 5K and do yoga every morning and every night. I want to have my hair and face done and wear fashionable, crisp, flattering clothes every day. I want to write volumes of beautiful prose.
But I don't, I don't, I don't.
In fact, what DO I do all day?
If I could say I wasn't cleaning because I was playing with the baby, that would be fine. If I wasn't reading and writing because I was taking such good care of the house, I'd still be proud. If I wasn't practicing self care because I was spending all my time at the farmers market and in the kitchen, I'd probably still be happy.
But I'm not.