Some days I feel like my life is a surrealist painting.
Look! The children are taking pears for a walk! Now they’re making oatmeal paste on the floor. Now they’re using stacking cups to throw water out of the bath like a sinking fishing boat.
Are those raisins from someone’s poop?
It doesn’t feel very safe living in a surrealist landscape.
Nothing stays the same. Something’s always about to melt.
Raising a three year old and a one year old makes me feel this way a lot. Especially in winter when we can’t just run outside and dig stuff up in the yard.
I start to think, “Who thought it was a good idea to have children so close together?”
Really, “Who thought it was a good idea to have children?”
I want them to go on vacation without me.
The boys can be wild. There’s pushing, and pulling hair, and screaming, and throwing Tupperware… and cans… and empty milk gallons.
I’ve tried a lot of strategies. We’re in preschool. We talk to people. But there’s no magic bullet.
Some days just suck.
And on those days I think that I need to go back to work and hire someone else to take care of my children. And my husband, who is very supportive, will say, “Well, let’s get you back to work.” Which only validates my feeling of being a terrible, horrible, no good mother who can’t handle raising her own children.
If I’m no good at this, what am I good at?
Also, is there some place that still does electroshock therapy? Perhaps on the Island of Misfit Mothers?
I bet they have licorice. And massage chairs.
I say Yes.