So, I've had a few days to process my latest tantrum. Reading again what I wrote on Wednesday night, I feel a little annoyed with that self: a touch too much angst and self-pity, yes? And I almost erased the post and moved on, until I read this post by another blogger who had herself a similar, nonsensical breakdown. Hers was over a burrito in a Chipotle restaurant, mine was partially because, damn it, I wanted to go see Barack Obama and nobody could watch my squalling children, but differences aside, it's good to find verification that, yes, other good moms have moments where it all goes wrong and they question what they're doing.
I realize every single day that I am lucky in so, so many ways - a supportive, involved husband; enough money for take-out food, babysitters, a gym membership and lots of other little luxuries; good friends who write and call and e-mail when I start to lose it (thanks, guys); healthy, thriving children; the choices I have that women a generation ago had to struggle for so much. We had a great weekend as a family, too - time at the pool, Saturday in Holland with my parents at the Farmer's Market, a family run, dinner outside. I'm feeling optimistic going into this week and I'm going to try to enjoy this stage more, even while doing a little brainstorming about how I might make it better, including thinking about some part-time work possibilties.
But I'm not going to erase the post. I think that someday, when Annie or Jemma is knee-deep in changing diapers and filling sippy cups, they might take some comfort from reading about my struggles. And I might remember the difficulty just enough that I don't forget to help them through it instead of glossing over how wonderful it all is.
Tomorrow: Annie's last day of preschool for the year. I remember her first day so clearly - striped knee socks, backpack, blue shirt, khaki skirt as she casually hugged me good-bye - and I really can't believe she's all done for the summer. Bittersweet, for sure, watching her move through this time. (Now, I'm not crying in my bed about it like a certain person I know . . . but catch me after next year, when she's headed to Young 5's or Kindergarten, and I probably will be.)
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