It’s memorial day weekend. We are up at the cabin with family. A time where we are supposed to be resting and relaxing. A time of thankfulness. A time of remembering those who have given their lives for our freedom.
My husband has been working overtime and doing freelance work so we’ve been looking forward to this trip for weeks. We even bought our twin two year olds their first fishing poles and planned a treasure hunt.
And then there’s me.
A massive ball of, “just take me to the sanitarium.”
I mean, one of my boys just looked at me and said, “Mama’s tired.” Yes. Yes, Bennett. Mama is tired. Mama is reeeaaal tired. I do my best to keep my emotional issues from my boys but they are getting older and more perceptive and there is only so much “fake it ’til ya make it” I can get away with. And I am realizing that you don’t just have to have a mental illness like I do for this to be an issue. This world will make you crazy if you aren’t there already.
I am dead serious.
We are all just out there slogging it out. Doing our best to raise our kids. To keep them safe. To protect them from the big bad world.
But what happens when the world tells you that you are the problem? That you’re not being careful enough. Aware enough. Diligent enough.
That was my biggest fear coming into motherhood. In fact, for a majority of my life I was adamant that I was not going to have children. I didn’t think, given my own childhood and my issues with anxiety and depression, that I would be fit for the job. And I think the current cultural climate does not help. Too many rules. And honestly, by these standards, no one is fit.
The night before we left I read an article about a study that had been done about the worst types of sunscreen to use on children and adults. Sure enough, the stuff I just bought a while back was number one and number two. Of course. Of course it is. Do I throw it out and waste the $30, which is no small sum for us? Then go out and buy the good stuff, the lotion made by tiny fairy angels who infuse it with love and eternal life, for the low low price of my left ovary? And, by the by, it’s only available in California, because that’s where the fairy angels live. Or do I go ahead and lather my children up in this toxic death cream because I obviously, according to this article, don’t care about them?
I hate life.
I am tired, people. And it’s not just because my husband is working a lot. Or because I have twin toddlers that only function at 0% or 120%. They live on what I like to call, Captain Me Planet. There is zero visibility and they are flying at 100 mph anyways. No big deal. I got this.
Please don’t call CPS.
I am just sick and tired of all the rules. Rules about food. Rules about hygiene. Rules about clothing. Rules about schooling/education. Rules about development. Rules about medication. Rules about sleep methods/co-sleeping. Rules about playtime. Rules about friends. Rules about car seats. Rules about breast feeding. Rules about child wearing. Rules about television. Rules about the rules.
