I’m going to give you a spoiler: It. Was. Not. Good.
At 10:30 this morning I found myself trying to spray dried clumps of feces from my son’s most adorable pair of shorts he decided to rocket-poop in the night before. (Along with the liner to the high chair that he was sitting in when said rocket-poop happened.) Let it be noted that this was the second time in three days I was spraying poop off clothes in the shower. The first time was with footed onesie pajamas, in which one entire leg had basically been used as a back-up toilet. Talk about an A+ way to start that morning. (If you have anyone in your life right now who is thinking, “Maybe I should have some kids…babies sound like lots of fun.” Send them my way.)
As I’m very gracefully handling the sh*t sprinkler, Avelyn is yelling reminders every 15 seconds that I promised she could have applesauce. Once all the un-pooped clothes are in the washing machine I walk downstairs to see that Doghorse has dug through the recycling bin and shredded a pizza box, oatmeal container, and other mysterious substances through the living room.
On a good-mood positive-attitude kind of day I could have pushed past these unfortunate happenings and moved on. But today was not that kind of day. As with everyone else who has decided to eternally punish themselves by living in the certain perdition I currently reside, I tend to suffer from seasonal affective disorder (acronymed SAD—seriously?). And if you don’t live in the midwest Chicagoland area, let me update you-I’ve seen the sun about eight times since October. So it was this point in the morning that I basically said, “Nope. Mommy’s done.”
I turned on the television for Avelyn and ate an entire box of cereal I hadn’t even taken out of the grocery bag yet. Binge eating puts me on an even worse tornado of self-loathing, so an hour later I found myself not even able to get out of the living room chair. There was a long list of things that needed to be done. For example, my incredible sister-in-law is coming to watch the kids tomorrow and approximately every single room in the house needed to be desperately cleaned so I could continue the allusion that I don’t let my children live in a pigsty. But the thought of even standing up was so overwhelming I could have cried.
About 25 minutes after Avelyn finally went to her bedroom for a nap Harrison woke up from his. Every parent’s dream. So I grabbed my pillow, went into his room, and slept on his floor while he played. Slept. On his floor. Not laid there watching him play. I woke up to him stacking board books on my face.
The hubs was going to stay at work late but I called and helplessly begged him to come home in the next 10 minutes. When he asked “What’s wrong?” (on speakerphone) Avelyn yelled back “Mommy doesn’t like anything today.”
And it was true. I wasn’t mad at anyone. While the events of the morning stunk they weren’t especially awful enough to leave me in pieces. Yet I felt incapable to handle even the task of putting frozen chicken fingers into the microwave for my children to eat lunch.
Days like this happen on occasion. Days where I question my role as a mother, where I snap at unnecessary moments and then overwhelmingly hate myself. Days in which I feel so exhausted and overwhelmed and morose, and with no particular explanation-which of course only makes it that much worse. “There is no specific reason I’m like this today,” I tried to explain to Nick when he got home (as I crawled past to escape to our bedroom). I like rationale, but there is no cause to explain why days like this happen. If the hopelessness wasn’t enough, the guilt of feeling that way is sure to creep in and get you.
I’ve spent a bit of time trying to figure out a way to end this happily, but the truth is I’m still in the same bed I crawled into six hours ago. I know tomorrow I’ll wake up with that regular pep, but that doesn’t make today any more bearable.
So if you happened to have one of these days today, or find yourself in one tomorrow- have reassurance that you do not stand alone. Days are ahead in which no one will poop on any household objects. (And for the love of my dead grandmother please let one of those days come my way tomorrow.)
(PS-I wanted to make a quick note on the photo that I used for this post. While I have been known to occasionally use my smoothie machine to make frozen margaritas, I promise I’m not the spontaneous day-drinker this image sets me out to be. Sorry to disappoint.)