I have answered 12, 345 questions.
Broken up 1546 arguments. Five of which would have sent someone to the hospital.
I have put them to bed for 138 times.
I have taken them to the ranch, to Maine, for ice cream, the neighbor’s pool, the public pool and to the beach. I have made sure they don’t drown.
I have arranged play dates and well OK Langston arranged them for himself.
I have pondered what to feed them, how to treat them, and prayed that they didn’t get sick.
I have been up with them at 1:23 am and 4:42 am and 5:12 am…some nights three times in a row.
I have laughed at their jokes and listened to their long winded, pointless stores.
I have feigned interest.
I have broken up and mediated countless fights and arguments.
I was at a party where the women talked about being single moms and I wanted to scream YOU ARE NOT SINGLE! You are divorced! YOU have husband who takes the kids. YOU get a break!
I am a single mom. I am out here on my own.
And the exhaustion runneth over and floods my mind.
I need to get away. I need a night (4 really) where I don’t have to think about them, the next meal, the next day, the next anything. I need some time where my thoughts are not mingled with thoughts about what they are going to do, what they are doing or what they will do
I need to find myself. Make sure I’m Ok. Take stock of what I have, of what I need, of how far I have to go and of how far I've come.
Their endless chatter and needs and wants and demands are like the washing machine in the laundry room...you can't hear a damn thing except what is infront of you.
I need to sleep without the other ear listening.
But his death has left me trapped.
Art had no insurance. I did not tell you before becuase up until now, I felt his lack of insurance reflected on my good wifeness and his good husbandness.
I cannot hire a weekend babysitter.
I cannot go to a hotel.
I cannot get a massage.
The nights out are like band aids on a wound that needs to be sewn up, with the proper sutures.
I am that caged lion, the one who was not born in captivity. I pace and pace and pace the I strike with force and resentment and anger and ugliness. I strike in my mind, not really wanting to hurt anyone,, so I hurt myself and the damage is horrific.
The exhaustion is slowly, gently crushing me.
What strength I have left I use to keep me here, to not get on the 10 and just drive…away.
I hate when they say “Mom?”
Right now I hate being a mother more than I can possibly express.
I hate it to my core.