Full of venom -- a post I may regret

It's been one of those days.

It's been the kind of day that I honestly think to myself that I want to quit this job, this mothering thing. I fantasize how I can escape, how I can beat it.

It's been the kind of day I just want to curl up in a hotel room and sob and hide under the covers and dream of the days that didn't involve throw up and tantrums and half-hour naps and snotty noses and two toddlers crying for an hour straight for no apparent reason.

It's been one of those days when I wonder what I was thinking when I wanted children so badly. It's been one of those days when I wished I didn't have twins.

It's been one of those days when the venom inside me permeates so strongly that I can taste it in my mouth. I can feel it bubbling to the surface. And it all leads back to this: that my mother isn't here to help me. That she will never be here to help me. That she hasn't been here to help me since the first week we came home from the hospital.

I recently told her that I am at peace with this fact. And, every other week but this one, I am. But this has been the kind of week where patience wears thin after night after night of sleepless nights and endless bouts of crying. The pushing and pulling of two toddlers at my clothes, on my legs, in my hair ... the whines and cries of two toddlers in the kitchen, the bathroom, the bedrooms, the living room ... the tug of war over my cell phone, a stuffed animal, a curtain, a chair, a sticker.

It's the kind of week where I resent people. I resent them for not being here to help us. I resent them for missing out on nearly everything in my daughters' lives.

It's been the kind of week where I just want to give up, move far away and change my name and never speak to anyone ever again.

And, if we could sell this house, I might do just that. Not that that would help me get more sleep or help stop the crying -- unless, of course, I move to warm climate where winter and all of the germs it riles up is just a distant memory.