I almost fell asleep making dinner. I hadn’t sat down and forgotten it. I literally almost fell asleep standing up stirring a pot of boiling pasta. I’m tired. Bone weary. My soul is yawning. If only I had a me to help carry the load.
I’ve been feeling a lot of less than lately. Aside from the usual chores I have as an adult, I’m a wife, I’m a mother. I homeschool my teenage son. There’s the dog and the cat. Oh, yeah, and the fish. I hope I fed those guys this morning.
And I’ve recently begun working part-time transcribing audio. I work from home, so I fit in figuring out what Speaker 2 said at minute 13:57 in between a lesson in science, taking the dog out, throwing in another load of endless laundry, and falling asleep stirring the pasta. It seems like I can’t do anything right or enough or on time.
I’m stretched thin, painfully so. Even this blog, and the writing that I used to love, has become just another chore. Another box that I can’t quite check at the end of the day. There wasn’t time. I got too tired. I ate a pint of ice cream and fell asleep only to wake up with the spoon glued to my forehead.
I have two books, bestsellers, that I’ve been dying to read. I finally made the time to check them out at the library. Of course, after I got the books we needed for school. I don’t read them. It feels too luxurious when I know there’s so much that I need to be done.
I need another me to pick up the slack.
No one has to tell me the dog needs to go out. I just know. No list must be written before I go to the store. It’s all in my head. No 20 minute lecture on how to cook dinner. I know the recipe by heart. I could make it with my eyes closed. Sometimes I do.
I wish I could tell me I need more underwear and have it be done. I wish I could watch TV as I carry in the groceries from the store. I wish upon saying, “I”M STARVING!” I’d have dinner ready in ten. I could use another dependable, reliable, unwavering me.
I wish I had a me to tell me I got this. I’d love a me to let me know it’s okay to cry. I wish there were the other me to hear me vent, make me laugh, and selflessly offer me the last slice of pie.
Holy shit. I sound fucking awesome.
I am tired, of course I am. I should be. In an average day I worry about the needs of at least 2-4 humans. Somedays it’s much more. But never, not one day, has it been less.
The dog and the cat and fuck I forgot to feed the fish! And work, did I earn enough this week? If I didn’t, where do I squeeze in a job? When was the last time I checked the mail? More importantly, when was the last time I paid the water bill? Shit. I hope they don’t shut it off.
“All the forks are dirty.” He stares at me with doe eyes.
“There are ants on the windowsill.”
“The dog peed by the door!”
“Do I have to read three chaptersssssssssss. GAWWWWWWWWWD.”
Where’s a me when I need her? She’ll get it done.
I need a blog post written and at least 20 more minutes of audio transcribed. Would you mind making some coffee? Oh, and the kitty litter needs to be changed. Whatcha making for dinner? I’M SO HUNGRY!!!! I think I’m gonna die!!
Don’t forget the bills. There are three, no four, that I forgot to get out on time. We’re out of butter too. AND BREAD! Don’t forget the bread. The dog needs to go out again. Be a dear and get some gas while you’re out, if you don’t mind.
Next week’s lessons plans need to be sorted out. Little hint: No matter how creative you think you are, he’s still going to think it’s boring. Cause he’s 13, That’s why.
And the laundry. The bathroom. Soap scums’s looking a little thick. The cat just puked! Might want to get that before it stains. Hey me, you tired yet? Yeah? Too bad. The husband needs that shirt ironed before he leaves for work.
But really, who am I kidding? I couldn’t dare do that to me. I just wouldn’t. I know what that’s like. To be swamped, drained, overloaded, falling asleep stirring the pot. Pulling my hair out and feeling guilty for not being able to do it more gracefully. Stretched so thin you could read a newspaper right through me. Hey! Don’t forget to recycle that. The earth is depending on me.
I’d love to have a me, but not to watch her drown like I feel like I am. Fact is, I’d probably tell her to put her feet up, grab her a pint of ice cream and a glass of wine. Tune it to Bravo and tell her to relax.
But if she were the me, the real me, the me that can’t quit she’d hand me a spoon and insist I sit down. She’d say, “Fuck the dishes,” and pour me a glass of wine. And we’d laugh and bitch and complain and fall asleep five minutes before Watch What Happens Live.
Tomorrow it will get done, because it always gets done. Eventually and with enough coffee. Cause we’re me. That’s why.