There's only so long a woman can die to herself and not just give up and die altogether.
A couple years ago I started a book called, "Everyone wants a piece of me! (and I've got no pieces left)." It was everything you'd never want in a book. And thus the reason it never went anywhere.
Believe it or not, I don't get a great deal of satisfaction out of whining.
But that's what I want to do now. Here at 11 pm. Hours, yes hours after I went to bed but am still not allowed to sleep. Why? Because I am a mother. And this is one mother who would currently like to cash in her title and go lay on a beach somewhere where cabana boys bring her drinks.
And right now, as I always do, I want to go back and correct that, or at least qualify it, saying you know I don't mean that. Except it sure feels like I mean it. And I'm tired of qualifying everything I write. The skin is falling off my hands. I don't get to sleep. I do my darned best for my kids who don't appreciate it. People want answers from me RIGHTNOW, but don't bother to answer my queries for weeks on end and only if I endlessly nag to get the answer and long after the answer could have helped me even the tiniest little bit. I feel like I am stretched so thin that the littlest thing will cause me to snap and yet I'm still asked for more. And then I sit down in church and hear a sermon about SELF-FREAKING-DENIAL.
Now, I hope I have vented enough that I can go to sleep. For heaven only knows that I may just used up the only 10 minutes I'll get this week.
I am so going to hate that I published this tomorrow morning.
Or maybe not. I just heard someone fall out of bed. At least I didn't have to pry my eyes back open to deal with that one.