Yesterday was a tragedy of human history. Let the hyperbole commence! Okay, it was only tragic to me. And only to the small corner of my brain that is still somehow convinced that sanity is possible after children.
Yes, that corner is very lonely. How did you know?
I was fairly certain that having children would change my body permanently in many ways. I knew that children would wreak permanent havoc on many of my possessions. And I accepted these changes beforehand (though, that doesn’t mean I can’t cry over them now and again).
How on earth did I get to adulthood, let alone parenthood, not knowing they would wreak permanent havoc on my my ability to think clearly, to concentrate, and maintain general sanity?
No, waiter, I did not order the bleary confusion pie topped with whipped crazy; wait, what do you mean it’s “on the house?”
For some reason, I can’t help but consider the loss of what I considered my “self” tragic…
Please, dear Lord, tell me how this could possibly be a survival instinct. Is it a test? Could we please find some other way to refine my character? Please? Please?
Ahem. Yesterday. I was trying to write a knitting pattern for a sweater for myself. All those jokes about how high school math has no use in real life? Written by people who don’t write knitting patterns (or, you know, become engineers or rocket scientists, or whatever).
Fortunately, I both loved and was good at algebra and trigonometry (yeah, I said I loved trig–deal with it). But if I ever felt like I was taking a test under duress in high school (not a fan of time limits and deadlines here), I obviously didn’t know what a battlefield cognizant thought could become under the influence of
tiny little dictators that are NOT Napoleon my beautiful innocent children.
For example, I learned yesterday that The Helpful Toddler is one heck of a multitasker. She can pick at and play with things with great interest, while still continuously making high pitched misery sounds with her mouth, while being disciplined with a time out in her room. Three activities at once seems to be her limit, though, because she did NOT also notice me standing watching in the open doorway. If she had, she could have seen in my eyes the exact moment her chance for ice cream died its tiny death.
Well, so, in the 6 or so hours I spent trying to write a simple sweater pattern, I managed this:
At one point, the Helpful Toddler asked me why I was making “that face”; was I angry or just tired? She giggled. My eye twitched.
In the 45 minutes after IJ got home from work, I managed this:
Okay, the part in the top left is still from before he got home. All the neat and orderly stuff came after.
These pictures offer a clear visual representation of the brain of a stay at home mother who has been home alone with the kids all day (former) and who has a few minutes of quiet to herself (latter).
The latter is why that lonely part of my brain keeps holding on to the hope of sanity.
Until then, the rest of me has to eke out the meager remnants leftover from the productivity siphoning midgets’ daily raid on my admittedly leaky tank.
At least it’s almost the weekend. Woohoo, yardwork! …uh, wait, what?
*update* She got ice cream anyway. I’m disgusting. **