On Easter Sunday, I spent the morning at a spa getting a luxurious pedicure. It was a present from Mike, but it wasn’t an Easter gift. It was a “I’ve been traveling a lot for work and I know being with the kids 24-7 is exhausting especially when Riley has stumbled upon the terrible twos and Dylan has invented the I-won’t-listen-to-anything-you-say fours” gift. It was a nice surprise and a lovely gesture. And surely it would cure my recent bout of Stay-At-Home Mama blues. Or wouldn’t it?
The pedicure was great, and so was going to see “Wicked” the weekend before, but at this point I’m not even sure a week on the beach in Aruba would tame the gloom I’ve been feeling…although I’d be willing to give it a try. I’m in a rut. The boys are challenging, but that’s a given. Riley is two and Dylan is, well, Dylan. The problem is me. I don’t know what sparked this malaise, but I have no patience, I’m frustrated and I lack the sense of humor that is clearly a prerequisite for dealing with spirited toddlers like the ones I’ve been given. I fall asleep every night wishing I hadn’t overreacted, snapped or yelled so much during the day, and then wake up each morning hoping for a clean slate. And then it starts all over.
It’s times like this when I need a slap in the face to remind me that whatever is happening right now is just one chapter in a long book. I’d like someone to hit me over the head with this book to snap me out of my funk. I actually did hit my head on the corner of the kitchen table this past weekend. Maybe it was a sign?
I’ve been talking to Dylan a lot lately about making good choices, like helping his little brother do a puzzle instead of throwing the pieces at his head, and I need to follow my own advice. I can either choose to be negative and let negative energy swarm around me or choose to be positive and let positive energy dance all around me.
I don’t want to swarm. I want to dance! Being a mother is tough, but so are a lot of other things. Period. Almost a year ago, I made the choice to get up off the couch and start this blog, and now I have to choose again to make motherhood work for me. One pedicure isn’t going to cure me of my current state of mind, but it sure is good medicine. (That trip to Aruba would be a drug worth trying, too.) If you see me on the street looking swarmy, feel free to slap me in the face or hit me over the head with a book. Just don’t mess up my nails.