Hate

  I hate the laundry, how it's never done, how it expand to fill all the time and space available. 

I hate the dishes, how they are somehow simultaneously all dirty and all in the dishwasher clean and waiting to be unloaded.

I hate school drop off and pick up, the hours I spend in lines, following rules, just to get my girls out the door of my car and into school.

I hate when my kids fight, when they scream in each other's faces and push each other's buttons. I hate that we can't get out the door without one or more of them screaming or crying or losing their ever loving minds. I hate that at 9 and 11, the anxieties and worries and pain have gotten bigger instead of getting better. I hate that I can't fix it.

I hate when I try to explain my problems to someone, and instead of listening and acknowledging, they try to tell me why, really, I shouldn't feel the way I do because everyone compares, because I do things well, because everyone has different talents, because really what do I have to be upset about or disappointed about or discouraged about really ... Really.