I need some structure to my life. Some creativity. I need to get back into writing. Into living. Into doing something that doesn't involve changing diapers and having children strapped to me or screaming at me or running circles around me. I love my boys, but they need a sane mama, and I'm not-so-slowly and very surely heading down the road to a Very Bad Place.
So I turn to Blogging. I haven't kept a diary since I was a teenager. I still have the last diary I wrote. I labeled it "Bedtime Stories" and kept it on my bookshelf. It's one of those flimsy lock & key styles, white with a winter scene on the front. What did I write in there? What was so important? I read Jay a passage from it when I was pregnant. Some rant from when I was under 18 where I'd spent pages writing about how I wanted a baby. Someone to love and who would love me back, I think were the exact words I used. Jay found it frightening and amusing that I wanted a baby for so long. That I put it into my diary.
Then I had that baby. Granted, it took nearly 10 years before actually making that baby. I never said I was a stupid teenager! I loved being pregnant with Elliot. Loved my big belly. For the first time in my life, I loved how I looked, how I felt. It was nothing short of magical. Even towards the end, when I was full of aches and pains and wasn't sleeping well and was so cranky... I loved it.
Imagine my surprise when I was pregnant with Felix and it didn't feel as wonderful. Everything hurt sooner. I was sicker. Jay went away for the whole first trimester so I was parenting a toddler by myself, sick as a dog. I showed early. Stayed sick well into the second trimester. Ended up back at work because Jay had been laid off, worked my butt off and then landed in the hospital at 30 weeks when my water broke. Ended up on bed rest for the duration of the pregnancy. (And, oh yes, he was 10 days overdue!) I was miserable. But I still had a fondness for my big baby belly. I miss it.
Where was I?
Oh yes. Structure. Creativity. Life.
I spend my days chasing the boys around. Spending waaaay too much time in front of the computer messing around, losing patience with the kids and dreading nap time. It's a battle to get them both down for a nap. Nevermind both - it's getting one down while the other is still awake and shrieking in the next room. I. Hate. It.
No wonder I drink. And suck chocolate into my body like oxygen. I seriously don't even taste the stuff anymore. Stupid addictive personality.
Today, I polished off a 100g Organic Milk Chocolate & Almond bar in nanoseconds while preparing supper. And still craved more. I'm forcing myself to sip my "the boys are in bed - end of day" celebratory wine so that it can last, but I want to guzzle it like the chocolate.
I'm hoping words can soothe me. That if I write long enough I can make sense of everything and find some peace and balance again. That maybe I can wean myself off the antidepressants that I need to be a sane & happy & non-yelling mama. (And yes, I know I shouldn't be drinking while on meds, but it's one glass, so there.)
Well, it's a start. A jumbled, convoluted mess of words, but it's a start.