It's been quiet around here. I wish I was talking about my house, but unfortunately I'm talking about the ol' blog. And I wish my silence was due to the fact that I'm soooo busy living this full, vibrant life that I don't possibly have time to write, but nothing could be further from the truth. To be honest, I've been in a pretty big slump lately. I mean, how many times can I write about laundry? Or various messes? I've been blogging here for over two years now. And the phrase "same shit, different day" was obviously created to perfectly sum up my life. Go back to my archives - what was I blogging about? The same stuff. Housework. Children. Unwanted hair. A body that the gestation of three children has ravaged until it is sagged, stretched, and ripply in places I didn't even know could freaking ripple.
My life isn't about me. I'm not even sure who I am any more. I feel like someone else is driving, and that I'm just sitting in the back seat, staring out the window as the world quickly passes me by. I used to have ambition, but I can't seem to find it any more. Every dream I ever had - even the ones that I once felt were well within my reach - now make up this vague list of "things I would like to do that will most likely never happen." The ambitious girl I once was seems to have retreated into this gray area that I can no longer access. Obscurity and mediocrity. Existence versus living.
This morning, within an hour of getting up, I was in tears. I stayed in bed for a few extra minutes with the baby asleep beside me, even though Colin and Cameron were already up; what a mistake. I woke up to cereal (with milk) on the couch, cat puke on the floor, and pee in Cameron's bed (yet his nighttime Pull-Up was completely dry; go figure). By the time I cleaned everything up, my morning schedule was already lagging far behind. Then there was a lost shoe that we never did find. We were later than usual getting to school, which will throw Colin off - because he does best on a regular schedule. Which means that, undoubtedly, I will get yet another note from the teacher in his planner tonight. "Colin had a bad day ..."
I could go on and on about the same old stuff, you know? About how I feel like I work my ass off with absolutely nothing to show for it. I'm forever cleaning something, yet my house is never as spotless and sparkling as I want it to be. The laundry? I do it daily, often more than once. Yet there are always dirty clothes piling up somewhere. I'm perpetually frustrated. All this work. All this effort. Endless. And for what? Certainly not an effing paycheck.
I can't even put into words how disappointed I am with myself, with the grown-up that I became. If you had asked me at sixteen or seventeen what I'd be doing at thirty, I'd have outlined a clear plan that included a college degree, and at least one published book under my belt. I would never have said, "Well, gee, I'll be a housewife-slash-occasional writer who wipes butts and provides 24/7 maid and laundry service." I never thought I'd lose my passion for writing, but I barely even enjoy doing it any more, because the things I write to bring in money aren't the things I want to write. I feel like it's not even worth doing. My husband works very hard at his job, and he enjoys it. It fulfills him. He complains sometimes, but he's very good at what he does. He gets to go on business trips. He gets promotions. He gets emails from his boss about what a valuable asset to the team he is. He brings home the bacon. And I? Am just ... here.
I feel like I've traded in the life I'd planned for this. Like, I don't know how to be a person and a wife and mother: I can only do one or the other. But I'm so afraid to complain. I don't even know if I'm going to publish this, and if I do, I'm afraid to leave the comments enabled. Because, yeah, I'm aware that it could be worse. I'm aware that I could have lost my house - or worse, my family - in a tornado or an earthquake or a tsunami; I thank God that I didn't, and pray for those who have. And I'm not saying I don't love my husband and our kids, or that I wish I'd done something different. I just wish I knew how to be me, still.
I'm trying to look on the bright side. I know it doesn't sound like it here, but I'm trying. When you feel like you've left behind all that you ever thought you'd be, though, and that you're failing at life in general ... it's hard. I feel like a shadow of my former self. A lukewarm wife. A mediocre mother. Treading water. Going nowhere. Contributing nothing significant. Mothering is not enough, and even if it were, I don't do it all that well - believe me.
I'm scared to death that I'll get old, look back on my life and see so much wasted time. If I keep on this way, that's exactly what's going to happen. Yet I don't even know where to begin to change it ... what I can do to make it different. Because if I saw a solution, I would've done it already.
I'm sorry if you came here today to read something funny. I just don't have any funny in me right now. I feel like an abandoned house: empty, deteriorated ... waiting.