Mondays are hard and not because it’s the begining of the week, but because it’s the end of the week- for my husband. Tuesdays and Wednesdays are his weekend days and since he works such long hours, I spend all day… alone… with three small children 5 and under and by Monday I want to rip them apart! The satisfaction I feel simply imagining this scenario –
the feel of their flesh in my hands,
the amount of physical strength it would take to accomplish the act –
is so calming, such a tremendous relief!
But I feel guilty for even imagining it.
I’m terrified I don’t appreciate my children. Other people speak openly and often about the many ways in which they find my children to be delightful. And they are right! It’s no act! It just feels like it takes a lot of sweat, blood, tears, and about ALL of my patience to get my little diamonds-in-the-rough to be less rough and more diamond. So I say things like, “Yeah, you should see them at home!” or, “Just wait, they’ll change your mind soon.”
I need to work on my attitude of gratitude because I truly have the best family ever.
Lately I’ve been wanting to pick up a vice. I could really use a nice little addiction to help take the edge off or see the absurd side of life a little clearer. Nothing too serious, a little pot – such is the family way – or a favorite alcoholic drink (i wonder what my favorite drink is…?) But I wouldn’t be sharp enough to do my one and only job and take care of this family.
By Monday I am weary, frustrated, defeated and want nothing more than to shirk all responsibility to this family.
By Thursday, I’m slightly more refreshed, rejuvenated and ready to properly adore their cute little faces!
But Mondays are really fucking hard!