I have been suffering from paralyzing anxiety over perfection. Before we left for North Carolina when Kyle’s grandma died, we had an enormous argument about the state of the household. Or rather…the disorganization of the household and my lackluster performance as a housewife. At the time I was blogging daily, socializing my children, teaching my children fundamental things like their ABCs and 123s, creating culinary masterpieces for dinner EVERY single night, ironing The Workaholic’s clothes nightly, and volunteering at Styles’ school a couple of times a month.
SOMETHING had to go. That something, unfortunately for my family, for me, and for my bank account, was the blog. I can’t. DO. EVERYTHING. I’m only one person with 4 other people to take care of emotionally and physically. SO now that the blog has been sitting here gathering dust for the past 2 months, The Workaholic realizes that I was bringing in a significant amount of money each month and GASP! we need that money back in our budget. So he tells me that he needs me working on the blog again. AND keeping the house up. And I tell him to buy me a BLEEPING red cape to go along with my Superwoman boots ‘cuz I’m just one flipping Person.
My children are whirlwinds. It doesn’t matter how many times I run behind them to pick up their messes, 5 minutes later they have destroyed another room from top to bottom. Case in point: I cleaned the CRAP out of my bathrooms today. I got in there and really gave it some elbow grease, cleaning crevices, mirrors, and shower doors that are sometimes neglected during my weekly bathroom clean. I had to lock them out of the bathroom while I cleaned, simply because Grady likes to climb INTO the shower while I scrub it which doesn’t do me a whole lot of good. I use botanical cleaners so it’s completely safe for him to do, just annoying and counterproductive for me. When I emerged from my gleaming bathroom about 30 minutes later, the entire Great Room was destroyed. Toys were scattered about, clean laundry was all over the floor, drawers in the kitchen were completely emptied; and the pantry was open, almonds scattered on the floor.
I wanted to cry.
The bathroom might be cleaner than it’s ever been before, but the rest of the house looked like the Tasmanian Devil had been for a visit.
Kyle called me shortly after and told me that he was on his way home. At least 7 different expletives popped into my head because I knew that there was NO way I was going to be able to finish the squash casserole, clean up the disaster, change Grady’s poopy diaper, sweep the kitchen floor from the neglected lunch mess, and make our bed by the time he got home. I felt even more like I wanted to cry but I was frozen.
Staring at the mess made me literally dizzy. My inner monologue consisted solely of cuss words. I wanted to crawl under the table with the dried up lunch meat and cauliflower rice and die.
Of course, add in the fact that the kids had been screaming blood murder since I came out of the bathroom and you have one extremely stressed out mama who is ready for an intensely long sabbatical of silence and solitude.
When The Workaholic stepped through the door, he tried to run interference with Grady for a few minutes before going to check on a (finally) napping Madilyn. I finished up the squash casserole and went to see what the heck he was doing in Madilyn’s room for over 30 minutes and I find him sleeping. Must be SO super nice to get a nap every day.
Instead, I’m stuck cleaning up messes, writing my heart out (what little there is left of it anyways), scrubbing mold out of odd places I forget to wash every week, dusting the ever-accumulating pile of dust on the furniture, wiping feces covered butt cracks, working on science fair projects, and obligatory after-hours performances until the very second I close my eyes to go to sleep at night. Even then my mind is running a mile a minute about all of the CRAP that I have to do the next day that I will never in a million years be able to complete to The Workaholic’s standards because I’m only one person.
Maybe what I need is a sister wife. Any takers?
So how this is going to go down is: I’m NOT going to iron any more. I already told him that if I have to make money, then I need time to write and I don’t have time to iron his clothing anymore. I’d also LOVE to never have to scrub another toilet or vacuum our hopelessly disgusting floor. Maybe I’ll get him to do those things on a consistent basis soon too.
In turn, he’s not allowed to berate me for what I’m doing on the internet anymore. He SPECULATES about what I do all day long (because if the house looks like THIS you MUST be playing on the internet). When reality is that writing a blog takes time. Time to produce content, time to promote on social media sites, time to read other blogs and engage, time , time, time, time. It’s a decent paying gig until you look at the time that blogging really requires.
So that’s how it’s going to go down. I’m back for the long haul but I need some serious support from you, my faithful readers. Support comes in all forms too so if you want my address so that you can send over a baby sitter, I’ll gladly provide it for you.
How do YOU keep it all together and make it all work? Because I can’t seem to get my head above water let alone keep it there.