Every once in a while, I think it's vital to a mother's mental health to vent a bit....or a lot, as the case may be.
I am sitting here, it's 7pm. I've been on the go since 6am. I am doing bedtime alone for the third night in a row.
I have a sink full of spontaneously appearing dishes that poofed themselves into existence while my dishwasher, filled to the brim, is purring happily in the background.
I am drying a load of laundry containing the sheets that must go onto Suzy's crib because she soaked them through when her diaper leaked during nap time.
I have filled the sippy cups, brushed the teeth, read scriptures, said prayers, picked up the toys, distributed kisses and hugs and threatened capital punishment if anyone so much as sets one toe out of bed.
I have Lysol wiped counters and toilets and emptied trash cans.
I am alone, which I hate. Mike won't be home until tomorrow. I am exhausted beyond belief and all I want is to crawl into bed while my husband stands guard to keep me safe all night.
Instead I will probably be up waging the battle of the bedtime until at least 9:30 at which point I will claim a half-hearted victory over my opponents who will have finally pooped themselves out enough to sleep. After this point I'll have some alone time to work on the birthday favors for Gavin's party on Saturday and then enjoy a fretful night where I wake up to every small sound in fear that it is actually a burglar, the boogey man, etc.
I am tired and I am lonely and just plain needing some rest.
Venting completed. I feel better.