Parenting....or trying to

I know I haven't written much lately, but I'm in this strange space where most of the events and emotions in my life at this particular juncture are not events or emotions I wish to share publicly.  I can usually come up with some thought or recent action that I think others could learn from or would enjoy, and that's the stuff I tend to blog about.  I think that's the stuff people are drawn to the most and like reading the most too.

I think people like to read about other people's lives, their successes and failures, because it reminds them that we're all just human and no one gets it right one hundred percent of the time.  We enjoy being voyeurs in other people's lives. We enjoy it and most of the time I sincerely enjoy encouraging your voyeuristic tendencies with my personal stories.

Right this second though I'm having a tough time being personal.  I am overwhelmed by life.  I am juggling grad school and job searches and family drama and parenting and divorce and redecorating.  Yes, redecorating.  I have no idea how that even fits into the rest of that list, but by god my mind is overcome with paint colors and costs.

I spent my day running around like a chicken with its head cut off trying to find toddler sized leotards, footless tights, tap shoes, and ballet slippers that were reasonably priced and would actually fit my child.  All the while I'm hearing cash register ca-ching noises and trying to calculate how exactly I'm going to afford all the paint I need to buy to paint the interior of my house if dance lessons are apparently going to cost me the equivalent of an amputated limb (or a life sized golden statue of a sumo wrestler).  While stressing about money and leotard sizes and whether or not buying used tap shoes would somehow adversely affect a three year old's ability to tap dance (because I am clearly losing my mind for even considering such a thing), the toddler in question is offering up eye rolling and unprecedented snarky attitudes, and very little gratitude. She's also telling the cashier that I am NOT her mommy and she wants some candy.  So I find myself also in the position of gritting my teeth and muttering reminders under my breath that she is, "Only three.  She has no idea why should she be glad or that not all three year olds get to take dance lessons, or how much work this is for me." I'm also wondering when I'm going to find time to start reading the 300+ page book I need to read for my graduate colloquium in history, and feeling guilty that I haven't even cracked it yet.

Then when I want to go pee she wants to come with me and I'm honest to god about five seconds from bursting into tears, and at this point for the love of all that is holy I cannot even tell you what I would be crying about in the first place.

So at the end of the day when I'm just about ready to curl into a ball and wish for death, one of my amazing best friends reminds me that all parents have days like this and if I did not love her then I wouldn't be feeling bad at all and I wouldn't be going to all this trouble, and sometimes....sometimes that's just what being a mommy is.  And it is.

And when I go to tuck her in and she hugs me and says she loves me and then whispers "'Cause you're my most favorite person in the whole wide world," which is what I tell her every single day,  I know beyond doubt that this horrible day was worth all of the pain and anguish and doubt and annoyance and near emotional breakdowns I've had since I woke up.  Maybe that's what parenting is.