Let me just start by saying…
What the fuck?
Yesterday, I had a bad day. I had too much going on, both inside and outside my head. I woke up exhausted, so much so that I took a nap at 10am. Yes, 10am. I woke up just in time to retrieve the kids from school. After school, I had about thirty minutes free, at which point, I had my first cup of coffee of the day. Thus the 10am nap.
Following that, I took my son to an appointment. By the time I arrived home, I had to start making dinner. It was delicious, but between prep and actual cooking, I was in the kitchen for nearly two hours. (My god, the back pain… it burned… I wanted to curl up into a ball and cry, and I had plans to do so later.)
Oh, but then I actually got to sit down for a half hour to eat. Yay.
Of course, I had to clean up after dinner. Dishes and pots and pans and counters and the stove. Thank fuck my husband agreed to help. It was in his best interest, after all, because at that point, if he refused, I may have clocked him on the head with one of those pans.
[This in no way implies that my husband is anywhere as close to perfect as Flynn Rider.]
Back to the whole “what the fuck” part.
I have a bazillion cooking things. (I like to cook and especially bake, when my back is not killing me.) So. My cabinets are pretty full. When I was getting a baking dish out of one of them, I dropped a pan. It missed my toe by maybe an inch. And the noise made everyone in the house take notice.
“What the hell was that?”
“What’s going in in there?”
You get the idea.
Do you see what’s missing there? Yeah. “Are you okay?”
“Why, no, I’m not,” I said in my head since no one asked. What I said out loud though, was a bit different.
“I dropped a fucking pan. Too much in this cabinet. I nearly lost a toe, but I’m fine, thanks for asking.”
[Yes, I totally swore. I suppose that’s wrong in the presence of my impressionable children, but they’ve lived with me their entire lives. They already have the “impression” that I use colorful language.]
Oh, then I was met with… disgust? … annoyance? I’m not sure what to call it, but basically, everyone was upset with me. Upset with me! For being bitchy that I dropped a pan! Let’s face it, my crappy mood was about far more than a pan that tried to kill me. I’d been exhausted and on edge all day. But they didn’t all have to give me that look and walk away. You know the look—the one that accompanies that extended “okaaaaay” as someone carefully backs away.
Every other person in my house has these moods. And they are far more, um, demonstrative about it than I am. And I never get upset with them. I may be exhausted and I may have my own crap going on, but I don’t get upset with them. I let them feel their feelings, and I try to comfort them.
But when it’s me? No one wants a goddamn thing to do with me when I’m frustrated and upset and fed up. I spend my fucking life lately trying to help, even just be there, for everyone in this house. But when I need that? Nothing.
Why not me? Why is everyone allowed to be a moody bitch, but not me? The minute I lose my shit, everyone either gives me hell for it or runs away, neither of which I ever do to them.
[To be fair, my daughter came to my room a couple of hours later, and we sat around making jokes about the boy she likes and listening to Shawn Mendes. I think that was her 14-year-old way of trying to make me feel better. Or maybe she was just bored.]
I need someone to tell me it’s going to be okay. Even if it’s a lie. Just fucking say it anyway. God, maybe if I hear it enough, I’ll start to believe it. (Hey, I can dream.)
But it doesn’t count when I say it to myself because I know I’m lying. At least when it’s someone else, I can pretend they mean it.
• • • • •
I bet they would do my dishes. Naked but for a revealing apron…
p.s. — By the way, I made Cheesy Baked Chicken with Mushrooms with broccoli rice on the side, and it was delicious. But that whole 35-minute start-to-finish thing the recipe claims? Yeah, right. Lies. I admit I was preoccupied while preparing dinner, what with murderous pans and such, but still. Lies.