So earlier today I wrote this long, venting post about how we aren't getting any sleep and how there's this proffered solution, and how my husband hasn't read it and how it makes me want to stab him.
Not irrevocably. Just a little.
But the real problem is not my husband or the fact that he hasn't read one particular fucking book. And in fact, I feel like a huge asshole for complaining.
The real problem is more like this: The real me has gone somewhere - probably on some exotic vacation - and left this sleep-deprived, low-humor, crabby, wrinkly, flabby woman in her place.
Neither of us get enough sleep. We're both trying to be good parents. And we're both maintaining full time jobs - and Nick's is fuller than full time, really.
And we have this house that's still so much work. Work that Nick does a lot of. And on top of everything else, he's a fantastic dad. He really is.
While me, I don't feel like such a fantastic mom. I feel like I do a good job of feeding Big J and playing with him and talking to him. Really, everything during the day. But I am so tired and resentful at night.
At night, I wish we could close the door on a soundproof room and just not hear him till morning. I want eight straight hours of sleep. Truth be told, I want ten.
How horrible is that? It makes me feel so guilty.
And I also feel like a sucky wife. I'm no fun. I'm always tired. I get mad and stabby so easily. And even so, Nick supports me.
I miss being enthusiastic and energetic and joking and laughing and putting on cute outfits and wearing tarty boots. I miss the me I used to be.
One evening last week the weather was lovely and a couple people ran past me on my walk home. And I thought, oh, if I didn't have a child, I'd be out for a delicious evening run. And then probably I'd be meeting friends for drinks. We'd chat and laugh and maybe even drink too much. And then I'd crawl in bed and sleep all night.
I feel like being a mom just consumes me. I love J so much and wouldn't trade being his mom for anything.
But I feel like I scrape by with the bare minimum in every other piece of my life.
And there I am, complaining about the men in my life, when really, I'm my own problem.