There's this saying among law enforcement that graffiti is the newspapers of the streets.
I'll add to that.
This blog is the newspaper to my heart.
And last week I wrote a dark post that really was a call for help, a yearn for someone to reach out to me.
That post was ignored by everyone real in my life. No one called to see if I was OK. No one even e-mailed, as much as I hate email these days.
It's not the first time. In fact, just about every time I've written about how I'd love to have some company, some help, some support, a caring shoulder to cry on, my headlines go unanswered.
Family is still too busy to make time for us. The only company we have are from my mom's club.
I've even gone as far as asking people for specific help around our house only to be ignored, shoved off or offered some vague not really helping kind of help.
Today, I questioned my mental outlook as I cried, again, on the way home from the park this morning. The girls wouldn't leave; ran in different directions leaving my heart to leap with worry and fear, which always puts me on the edge. I am not strong enough, fast enough, smart enough to outwit them anymore. I don't want to be the mean mommy. I don't want to cave in to their every want either.
Everything is a battle right now. This age, this stage. From the second we wake in the morning to the second we go to bed. When I walk through the door I am not who they want to see. When we walk downstairs, being home with me is not where they want to be. They argue over what book to read, what movie to watch, who gets what toy, chair, shirt, car seat and which way I should drive when turning out of the driveway.
They cry for daddy, for the park, for a car ride, for friends and family who we rarely see and won't be seeing for a long time.
I'm not sure if this is the terrible twos or if this is just what life is going to be like. It's hard to see past my own tears half the time.
They only miss me when I'm gone and I'm never gone. Ever. Who can leave when there's no one here to stay?
The responsibility of trying to keep them happy, entertained, uninjured by themselves and by each other is enormous. Much, much more than I ever dreamed.
I could handle all of this if it weren't for all the crying.
It's the crying that tears me up; that makes me want to run. Some days it's constant. There are some days when nothing I do works.
I wanted to be their life, but it's clear I am not. They want the world and half the time I can't even afford to buy them lunch.
I am trying so hard to be a good mom, a happy mom. I truly am. And I hate it when people tell me to cherish these days -- as if I'm not, as if I'm trying to rush past it all. I'm not. Not at all. I'm just trying to survive each day with some sense of knowing I did an OK job today. That I'm not ruining them for life, that they will be proud to tell stories of their childhood.
Dan is taking a day off today (Friday) to offer me some help. I hope it doesn't ruin his chances of getting the job he's trying to get. Just to help me. Then again, he hasn't taken a vacation day since, well, I do not know when. A year perhaps. Too long. Way too long.
I am going to try and mother myself for at least part of the day. Because, I think, ultimately that is really want I need, a mother for myself. Someone who actually thinks about me, my wants and needs, my hurting heart, struggling mind and wavering strength.
Why didn't I get the memo? Why didn't anyone tell me how hard being a mom is? Why did everyone pretend it's so easy and perfect and wonderful? I might have been more prepared.
But, go ahead, keep walking. Nothing to see here. Really.
Thank you for visiting today.
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