where did I go?

Note: I didn't just write this...and I didn't write it to publish. I did just find it though, and I decided to publish it. Here's why: My disposition is happy, favorable, positive. I spend most days genuinely investing myself in inspiring others--it invigorates me so! And people often comment, "You're so happy!" "You're always SO positive!" Well, that's just not so....just ask my family (sigh). I'm not an ogre (well....) but I have my moments--tantrums even, and I think it is only fair that I represent myself in balance. SO, here's my other side....at least a glimpse. I wrote this a month or so ago, and as often happens, once I write something, I feel compelled to do something about it. So, I'm proud to say that during our last 3 day snow adventure (all 20 inches) I did the things I hadn't done is all so long...I danced with my children, I sang, we baked cakes and cookies, we painted (and I didn't freak out, we spilled milk (and I didn't freak out), we stayed up late, slept late (well, I always do that....), and I talked with my husband like we were still dating....I'm feeling more and more like myself these days...and I'm feeling good <3.

I'm going to be brave, and I'm going to be honest, and I'm not going to worry as much about eloquence as explicitness. I'm not happy.

I can't believe that I just wrote that which is exactly why I needed to write it, because it is the truth, and in writing it, I am accepting that it is true. I am not happy.

I used to plan what I would do when my children were old enough to have birthday parties, make Valentine's, bake cookies. Sprinkle coated doily dreams. Carefree illusions. I'm no fun. The slightest attempt erupts (usually) in frustration and hurt feelings. When did a clean house become more important? Is it more important? If you ask my children it is….but I don't mean for it to be that way….

I love snow days. I love sleeping. I used to spend these days in casual repose, sprawled on the couch, piling mugs and bowls in the sink without care or concern. I still love snow days, but if I'm home tomorrow, (Friday), while I may remain in my pajamas, I will not watch cartoon with my children while the sink fills with dishes. I won't, as desperate as I am to make it so….I can't. I will get up, cranky, after several attempts to ignore my children, roll over, and return to sleep. I will refuse to pick sides or repair toys, or zip or button or match or locate, until I have peed, brushed my teeth, and prepared my coffee….I think at least this much is fair. But then I will answer all questions and requests with the same, "maybe later," and, "not right now" until I've swept up the speck dragged in by the dogs, or cleaned the dogs' feet when they're left outside. Then I'll refuse to make pancakes and offer cereal instead until I'm so beaten with demands, despair, and guilt that I will in fact make the pancakes and demand "thank yous" at least. I will wash the breakfast dishes until I hear the cat meow and realize that the dogs don't have food. I will yell, holler, and count until someone takes care of the dogs and then go out to feed the cat. I will warm my coffee, now cold, and sit down…when someone will begin to scream, or fight, or announce, "LuLu PEEEEEED." Of course she did.

I used to love snow days, the lazy unplanned, uncommitted bliss. I used to sled and iceskate and fall down until I was wet in the seat and oblivious to the snot in my frozen nose. But this was before one set of wet clothes became three sets of dripping, soggy, impossible to ignore destined for the machine laundry….before going out in the snow meant early bath times for everyone but me and hot cocoa that everyone wants but no one drinks. Wastefulness, and the lesson in it, blinds me….but in hindsight I will acknowledge that I once did the same….

I'm a hypocrite in my own home….and generally, only in my own home. I will preach the importance of self-expression and believe in it whole-heartedly but refuse to allow my daughter to fingerpaint—because I don't want to clean up the mess. I will foresee and fixate on the mess and fail to consider her needs, her desires, her masterpiece.

I will refuse to speak to my husband—my partner for almost twenty years. I will hold against him his tendency toward introversion with me, his talkativeness amongst friends—about sports. 

I'm not losing it. If anything, I think that I'm finding "it"—whatever "it" is—once again. And it's about time. My son's 9 and my daughter's 4 and I'm running out of time. Each day the urgency grows, the realization  that time is fleeting, that life is temporary, that many of my grudges are prejudices against those whom I love most….Pride collides with realism and I concede (even if only within my own heart right now) that choices must be made. I'm left confused and scared: because how can we ever be sure which battles were worth picking?

I know the importance of kind words because I've been hurt by hurtful ones, and yet I will use screaming as a preventative measure to ensure that the milk isn't spilt, and if it is….

I've been afraid to admit this, even to myself. I've been afraid that saying I'm unhappy might suggest that I don’t love my family. Let me make this plain: I love my family. If I didn't, this wouldn't bother me.  I love my children enough to wish that I could show them how much they truly are like me…the real me…the me who isn't tired all the time, who isn't ever grumpy, who giggles and dances and spins in circles and jumps up and down for no good reason at all. I used to do cartwheels. I used to. What the hell is preventing me from doing a cartwheel? How are dishes or muddy footprints, or laundry, or FACEBOOK more important than spontaneity? If I'm so tired, why am I not asleep on the floor under a tent of sheets in between my children? What has happened to "ME"?

Copyright © 2013. Carrie Ellen Campbell. All Rights Reserved. http://carriellencampbell.blogspot.com. Please respect Carrie's intellectual property. Sharing blog posts is permitted, but no part of this material may be copied, downloaded, reproduced, or printed without express written consent. Contact Carrie at: carrieellencampbell@icloud.com.