|This was the face of my weekend, folks.|
As I've mentioned before, I love my son, but I'm not particularly good at the day-to-day grind of being an actual Mother. It's a real pain in the ass to not have any time to yourself for weeks on end, and I'm beginning to fray at the edges. I want, actually need, to have a few hours to myself each day to shower and write and get back in touch with some shadow of my old self. When I am denied these things for a prolonged period of days, I fall apart and find myself standing in my pantry sobbing over a spilled jar of lentils. I thought that perhaps I was having an episode of late-onset Postpartum Depression, but I'm pretty sure that's not the case. Honestly, sometimes I simply start to go crazy because my life is so incredibly different than it used to be, and I barely recognize myself anymore. Who is this woman who only wears clothing that doesn't need to be dry-cleaned and who has memorized both Good Night Moon and The Very Hungry Caterpiller? What happened to the party animal who used to stay out late and lived a wild and crazy life? I guess my mourning for my life of freedom and selfishness and cute clothes and tequila shots continues apace.
Is this what happens when you wait so long to have children? Are you just so set in your ways that it becomes more difficult to transition from the life you had for so long to one completely focused on your child? I'll need some of my younger-Mommy readers to weigh in on this one, as I'm coming up on the dark side of 35 this Wednesday and I'm realizing just how old that is when one is dealing with an active, sleepless toddler. Perhaps I should've popped a few kids out before I turned 30, when I was cute and less bitter and still had a snowball's chance in Hell of getting my flat stomach back after birth. But you know me, always have to take the road less traveled and all that BS and wait until the very last minute before my eggs shut down to have a child. So here we are, at the crossroads of joy and despair, which seems to be an incredibly apt description for Motherhood in general.
So if you're looking for me, I'll be in my closet, crying over all the cute dry-clean-only clothes I'll never get to wear again and snorting Prozac.