Indulge me in a little self pity if you will. I didn't want to put this on my blog for some weird reason. I wrote it as a draft post but don't want to bring my blog down IYKWIM, so I'm going to post it here:
It's funny, as well educated, solvent (well, nearly solvent) adult in the 21st Century I feel I have less choices and freedom in my life than I ever have. My possessions are not my own, they are legally shared with my husband, and in reality "shared" with my children. My body is not my own; it is chemically supported by thyroid medication, ravaged on a monthly basis by my hormones, unwittingly abused on a daily basis by my children (as I type the baby is kicking my neck and sticking her fingers in my mouth), at the mercy of my baby's feeding whims, and currently being struck down by rhinitis acuta catarrhalis (the common cold!). My finances are eaten up by bills. I'd like a change of career but have no hope of affording to do so in the near or even distant future.
My time is not my own. I have about an hour and a half a day if I am lucky to do as I please. And I am usually too tired to do much more than slump in front of The West Wing and maybe crochet, usually something for someone else, rarely myself. The rest of the time is spent working, looking after the kids, cleaning, tidying, cooking.
I am mired in the chaos of my house, stuck in a relentless cycle of washing, cleaning, shopping and cooking. The house is rented so we don't have much freedom to do what we want with it, like invest in the garden, buy furniture that fits, paint over the oppressively mundane magnolia that adorns every wall, or get rid of the noisy and unwelcoming laminate flooring.
I cannot leave the house when I want, and I can't remember the last time I just left the house with nothing more than my purse, and not a bottomless pit of nappy, snacks, drinks, spare clothes, crayons and toys. I have a zillion unread newspapers around the house as I don't get time or energy to read them, even the concise ones like i and The Week. I still buy them though, wanting desperately to read about the other life that is 'out there'.
I know sometime I am not sympathetic enough to my children's lack of control over their lives. Betty is trying to behave like her younger sister in an act of latent jealousy over this loveable menace that has taken over our lives. She is negotiating the unwritten rules and regulations of school, and demonstrates her feelings of not being in control by having almost daily toilet accidents, and tantrums over having the right cereal bowl, or having green spoon.
Iris, despite probably feeling like she has the least control over her life (currently moaning in her cot at being put down for a nap I know she needs) actually probably has the most. She is the one who this house revolves around the most at this moment. Waking up and crying whenever she feels likes it and waking everyone else up when she does so. Now she can climb on the sofa and on chairs all treasured possessions must be kept above shoulder height. Nothing is sacred. Most daily activities revolve around her nap times, finicky little sleeper that she is. All those who say the second baby "just slots in" clearly did not have a child such as this one.
Work, for what it is worth, has a staff handbook, with terms and conditions, and fairly reasonable they are too. I get sick leave, maternity leave, flexi time, weekends off, am not expected to work beyond my conditioned hours, and, if I am really luck, a pension. At home my last sick day was spend tending to DH who was more sick than I was (we both had food poisoning) and looking after the kids. I'm very lucky that If I wanted to snuggle under the duvet for an extra half an hour before work I can. In theory. In reality I can hide under the duvet while both children jump on me, the elder one demanding breakfast, and the younger one tipping my glass of water everywhere.
If children do not get their own way they just cry or moan. As grown ups this is considered less appropriate. Sometimes when I am driving in the car and both the children are yelling in the back I feel like re-enacting that scene in the Simpson's where Marge Simpson finally cracks and just stops her car in the middle of a bridge and refuses to budge. I fantasise about doing that quite a lot. The fact that I am consciously thinking that, though, means I obviously still have some control over my emotions and actions, so it would be massively inappropriate to do so. The dam is bulging though, and unless I can take action to reinforce it I may be swept away by a raging tide of emotions.
I don't really want this blog to be a journal of my emotional well being, so I will not go on any longer. But I do want this blog to be something that people can identify with as realistic and real life. Indulge me by telling me if you empathise with me so I know that I am not the only Woman On The Verge of a Nervous Breakdown.
I will end this post on a positive note, so you don't all think I am an ungrateful wench, by listing the things, that despite them not being within my control, still make me happy:
The baby blowing raspberries on my boob instead of feeding, or doing one of her running hug specialities
My daughter hanging off my neck telling me that I am her favourite and her best, and so beautiful and the best mummy in the worlds and mummy can I have some coco pops?
DH bringing me home a book from the library that he thought I might like
My mum (who drives my absolutely crazy by informing me with an hour's notice that she is driving 2 and a half hours to come and visit us, buys my children inappropriate presents, feeds them terrible foods, refuses to plan anything including Christmas and New Year, and yes I know you are reading mum!) driving a 5 hour round trip to see us all for a couple of hours just because she misses us