I love you kids more than life itself, but I'm going to flip out on you if I can't start getting some interrupted time to fold laundry and wash dishes. I stay up half the night to work on my ebay store and wake at six every morning so I can do these few things without having demands for milk, lip balm, toenail clippings, nursing, or questions about the dietary needs or life cycle of a wolf spider.
We spend nearly every waking hour together, and often many of our sleeping hours in the same bed, so I'm sure I can tend to these needs during the other twenty three hours of the day. I fully understand that parenting is a twenty four hour job, but I could do a much better job if I were allowed to poop alone and dress myself without being asked to explain the reproductive habits of ball pythons while you repeatedly step on my feet and demand I read the chicken book for the 179th time.
I'm not one of those moms who ditches her kids in daycare so she can get her nails and hair done. I don't have date nights. I've had one child free weekend, albeit a working weekend, in the past eight years. I just want to be able to focus silently on one thing at a time for one hour a day before sunrise while you sleep.
Please forgive me, for I am about to chug my pint of lukewarm Earl Grey before someone drops a transformer into it so that I can fold the ridiculous amount of laundry you have generated while you all simultaneously try to unfold it.
One day you'll understand this, I'm sure. In about ten years, I'll burst into the bathroom while you're taking a shower, throw back the curtain, and start demanding answers about things like butterfly poo, the names of the goblins in the Labyrinth, David Bowie's hair, and the manufacturing and quality control process in chocolate factories.
Love,
Your exhausted and frustrated mother
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