I suffered from a mommy-induced breakdown yesterday. Mommyhood has encroached upon me lately with a vengeance, sticking its measly fingers into every aspect of my life, switching what I want to do with what I need to do. I won't insult your intelligence by tempering this statement with a bunch of half-hearted platitudes like, "But I really enjoy being a mommy," and "My kids come first," because, frankly, that's bullshit. Most of being a mommy is like herding cats; snarly, obnoxious, rude little cats with their own agenda (as every self-respecting cat has) and then cleaning up the mess made in the process. Oh sure, they're cute and cuddly, and I love 'em to death - wouldn't have it any other way, really. But shit, lately I've been their be-otch (through no fault of their own), and it ain't fun.
Ordinarily my priorities go something like this: Me (translate: writing), PHF, the kids, and then whatever else needs doing. I think my priorities are in good order. If I don't write for a few days (like this week) I start pointless, nasty, lo-blow arguments with PHF (like yesterday). ( Sorry dear :/ ) No one understands my compulsion to write, and that's ok because I don't expect them to. It's a shame that it's there, but it's just a fact of life for me that I must write a bit everyday, and that each week must be punctuated by at least one hours-long, caffiene or alcohol induced jag of furtive creativity. Once I accepted that I literally will write my fingers numb and my shoulder into a cramp if I'm allowed, I became a much happier person.
I'm like the animal who chews its leg off to escape a trap; the story closes around me in a sort of trap of urgency until it gets OUT.
As for my other priorities; the close second is PHF. I chose him, after all, and he's mine. I've got a responsibility to put him ahead of all others - even vowed to it if that means anything. He was around long before the kids, and with any luck he'll be around long after. (Kinda like myself - with any luck I'll survive the madness.)
Then come the kids.
I don't think that they're third on the list is a detriment to them. After all, they've got a lifetime to be first for themselves and a significant other. But they're kids; second class citizens with fewer rights and a limited vocabulary. And I'm bigger than they are (albeit not by much) so they have to do like I say.
Yesterday afternoon, while stuggling mightily and without much success to express what the hell was wrong (I didn't cry though, dammit!) I never came up with the fact that I wasn't writing. It wasn't until last night, at the Dark Horse (Tuesday Night Tricycle Races! but that's another post entirely) one of my friends told me she'd written nearly two hundred pages in the last few weeks. She's been laid up, sick and there's nothing else to do, after all. And it hit me. What the hell have I done? I was pretty prolific on the blog last week (ie Music Post) but I've been avoiding my fiction. It's been festering under my skin though, and yesterday it broke out into a raging red rash. Time to get back to it.
After I get done buying all the shit for my kid's birthday parties (yes, parties; yes, she's only three; yes, I know she's over-indulged; we have a lot of friends so what-ev) buying the rest of her presents, laundry, working out, swimming lessons, volunteering at school, and packing for the lake, that is.
Ok, this blog has become so much about me that I'm frickin' bored as hell with it. Next time maybe I'll go for some social commentary and political analysis.
Or, I could always just post a sex scene.