The light at the end is just for doing more work.

Happy Presidents' Day. This morning I saw the light at the end of the long tunnel of infancy and toddler motherhood: my children played safely in the house without direct supervision for longer than I'm willing to admit here. When my son wanted orange juice, my daughter poured him some in a sippy cup! I was floored. Of course she should've asked first and she left the juice bottle out on the table, but still! I did not sleep well last night after blogging and so was not feeling at all well this morning. I was on the couch, fleeing my husband's snoring, and awoke to him and the kids coming downstairs around 8:00AM. He made some egg whites for my son and I helped my daughter with the toast she was working on. I decided to go upstairs and wash up. My thick, stumpy legs feel particularly heavy as I go up the stairs...."This is because you're so fat," the Critic taunts. The bed is nicely made and I am thankful to my husband. I should not disturb it. But the sunshine is streaming in through the window onto the bed and that's even better than using my lightbox, which I am supposed to be using and have not. I am in my nightgown and uncomfortably cold. My body crawls into the bed and sets my eyeballs toward the sun even as waves of disappointment flood over me and shame wells I liquid form from my eyes. There is yelling, scolding in my head. What are you, we, doing?! You know this is a terrible idea! The sunshine is so pleasant and warm and sparkly and encouraging on my face. The cool flannel sheets quickly warm. I am in trouble now. I can hear the kids downstairs and they are OK. I yell down that I'm going to be a bit because I am getting some sunlight in my eyes. They shout back, "Okaaaaay!". Eventually they squabble and I call them upstairs. They pile on the bed with me and we snuggle a bit. Then they get off and my daughter turns on NPR for me without my asking, thinking she is helping. They both go play in their rooms. Now I am in real trouble. I am tired, I don't feel super-well, there is a lovely sunbeam in my face, I can see the trees outside, friendly NPR firends talk to me from somewhere I can't reach, and the kids are playing nicely in their rooms. No doubt, there will be hell to pay in the form of utterly destroyed bedrooms in return for this respite, but I simply do summon enough will to resist it all. It is noon before I am pulled from comfort by hunger and shame. There is little point in berating myself. There is nothing new to say. I appraise the horror of my kids' bedrooms and give them the hard time I deserve. I hate myself. I don't want to, I want to be excused for some reason from being such a terrible role model and housekeeper, but it's just so past that. My kids walk on precious knit blankets in their shoes as they grope for how exactly do clean up. They don't see them. It is so utterly normal for them to have stuff on the floor that it doesn't bother them. They see no reason to clean up since it always looks this way anyway. I want to crawl into a hole. My parents would be so ashamed of me. I feel powerless against the overwhelm. My mom was so right and I was so angry at her and hurt that she thought I was lazy. Now I see that she was right and I'm passing it on to my kids. I should not have children. Clearly. I don't want to do what is needed to care for myself or them. And so often I don't. What is wrong with me that I am revealing this failure to anyone? I think I've gone past helping people and into a series of whiny pity party posts. I need to do better here too. Stream of consciousness is not fun to read when it's all a big downer. I will try to do better.