I know, I know, that I get depressed when a) I need more sleep and b) it’s going to be too long before I have writing time again. So I should be able to just go to sleep and push the little black clouds off again, right?
I think most of us know depression doesn’t quite work that way.
The truth is that around here, we loathe weekends, which doesn’t really bode well for our marriage or family life, but there it is. We haven’t had weekend help in ages. I know, all of your kids play happily while you blog or do dishes or laundry or put the shelves in the new bookcases that have been sitting there for weeks. shelfless. Ours don’t. This is what they do:
Pull themselves up on your leg and wail hysterically. (Wyatt)
Hang around begging you over and over again to come and play family. Announce that they have to pee. Knock Wyatt over. Fall over themselves and begin screaming hysterically. (Lily)
Lay on the floor two feet away sighing heavily and asking when they can have some ice cream. (Sam)
Somehow it doesn’t sound as painful when I write about it, but it is. Just as you put the first peg in to put in one shelf (of 24), Lily has to go to the bathroom. Return to bang it in, Wyatt is hysterical, beside himself. Change his diaper, stop to nurse him, something. Retun for second peg. Can we have a snack? We’re hungry. Get snack. Return. We need a drink, you didn’t get me a drink! Return. Can I have another piece of cheese? That’s a healthy snack, cheese, can I have another?
Damn it, this sounds funny. And the thing is, at the time, it’s not. Not at all. It’s like walking in jello, all the time.
Probably everyone else just ignores them and puts the shelves in. Ah, yes, once again it’s my failure. That’s what I hate most about parenting. Why yes, indeed, it’s all your fault.
Anyhow, on the weekend, it’s all about you take them. You get them breakfast. Can’t you just watch them for a few minutes? Can you come over here and get him? Can you get her off me? And they need so much, so much, that we both end up feeling like we did it all, all weekend. And that’s not even getting into the laundry or the dishwasher or the piles and piles of crap all over the place. By Sunday night we are a pair of grumpy martyrs who don’t talk to one another.
I have found us someone for SUnday afternoons, but I feel guilty about it. Surely we should be able to take care of our own children, especially when there are two of us. Other people do. I’ve seen them.
I had such a miserable fucking day.
It is a good thing I don’t believe in God, because he’d punish me for saying that by giving me real misery, I know he would. Or she would. I’m an equal opportunity non believer. Unfortunately I do believe in irony, a powerful force in the universe and equally out to get me.
Yeah, I know, buck up, little beaver. I will. It’s all or nothing here. It’s either a great day or the sun will never shine again. The lows are just a little deeper and more frequent at the moment.