How am I supposed to...
One minute I’m fine. The next minute I’m NOT FUCKING FINE.
It’s 4:45 am and I’m grateful that my husband’s fart functioned as my second alarm because I laid back down after I woke up the first time at 4:30. Cold shower. Journaling. Some real good stuff was coming out this morning.
Sam woke up happy at 5:15. Waking up happy is a good thing. I know I shouldn’t allow him to watch TV at this point, but I was on a roll with things and just wanted to continue. So I got him settled into PJ masks with the volume practically muted. Back to work. Back to my dream. Back to business.
Mom JUICE. Mom GRAPES. Mom MY HURT BUTT. Mom. Mom. Mommy. Mom. Mom. We potty. I put witch hazel on Sam’s butthole. We both wash hands because he touched it too. Great. I blow my nose one-hundred-million times. Oh. My. Gawd.
How in the FUCK am I supposed to BUILD A BUSINESS when I have ZERO alone time to think? I break down and sit in the darkness of my bedroom. I cry a little. Knowing that part of the reason I’m overreacting is that I ran out of Zoloft and it’s been a few days. I take a dose and a half this morning. And when I’m done with my pity party. I give myself a pep-talk.
People fucking do this, Shannon!! There are women out there WITH SMALL CHILDREN. Shit. Probably SINGLE MOMS with small children who do this. Who own their own business. Who find a way. Who do the work. YOU can figure this out too. So get up. Wash your face. Give those tiny humans a hug because they are amazing. Give your fabulous husband a kiss because he is up at 6 am on a Saturday as he could tell that you were about to lose your shit. Love him because he asked if you were ok - when you know damn well he was probably terrified to do so.
And as I sit here, that amazing man is changing Hollis’s diaper and bringing him to me so I can finish this fun article with a baby hooked to my right boob. My right one because it’s the over-achiever. And when we’re done here, I shall go suck boogers out of noses.
