I've been writing versions of this in my head for a long time. Maybe too long, I don't really know anymore. I've definitely been feeling it for longer than I want to admit, so perhaps it's time to put it out there.
Sometimes I am angry.
I wake up in the morning, groggy, stumbling to help the kids with the morning routine and I feel it bubbling under the surface, as the sun is rising. I start to think about our morning (getdressedgetbreakfastgettoschoolgetcoffeetidythehouse) and I just feel hopelessly lost. The walls are closing in around me already.
I snap at the kids, at my husband. I ponder kicking something, and I try to breathe through it, until we are out the door, up the hill in the sunshine.
I'm better then, for a while, while we drop Her off at school, run errands, get home and get on with our day. Sometimes I just want to curl up, and doze the morning away, pretend that they aren't always asking for something, anything, over and over again.
(another string cheese? perhaps some milk?)
Sometimes, I go through the motions, just so I can get out the door again, to take the Boy to the park, hoping that I get to have 2 minutes of adult conversation. And when he wants to go on the swings, there I am again, angry and resenting this life that I chose. Resenting the moms who go to work, resenting the kids who can play with other kids, rather than sit next to me snacking. Resenting everyone and everything.
I'm not proud of these moments. But they are there.
Yes, I know I have lots to be Not Angry about - my kids are healthy, I am healthy as is Dave. I have a good relationship with everyone in my family and I have good friends that would be there for me in a heartbeat, if I called on them. I am lucky, and blessed and so, so very fortunate, and I acknowledge it every chance I can.
But still, there in the dark, deeply rooted corner of my mind it's whispering. Sometimes. I am Angry.