I need to get out of this house. I know what I said earlier about the nesting, enoying the gift of time, relishing my home and family…
Yadda, yadda, yadda.
Get. Me. Outta here.
My due has come, and enough is enough. I cannot lose one more day of my life walking around inisde these walls looking at the endless amount of cleaning and organizing that needs to be done. It never gets done, and when it does it never lasts. I have created a family of lazy butts who think they can eat and leave dishes on the coffee table and undress and drop clothes on the kitchen floor.
THEY HAVE NO ACCOUNTABILITY because I never made them accountable. I know, my bad. My very, very bad. But what’s done is done and I’m not about to take it to City Hall. No way. I’d rather just get out of dodge before I call Nanny 911. Frankly I don’t have it in me to fight the good fight.
Natural consequences, that’s what I say. Let them wade through their rooms to find their coveted crap. Let them hand wash a spoon for their yogurt because none made it into the dishwasher. Let them eat cake for dinner for all I care, but leave me out of it. I can’t sacrifice another minute cleaning up after, serving, hosting and chauffering. Not because I don’t love my darlings, and not because I’m mean and selfish.
BECAUSE I’M A PERSON TOO. I have a life of my own, or at least I want one. One with a little spot carved out just for me. Not one night out every two months for wine with the girls. Not school at the university, though God knows that has saved my ass over the years. I’m talking about a place where I can build something, grow and flourish outside of my role in motherhood. I’ve cherished my time home with my kids and did a really great job caring for them when they were helpless dependents, but they are no longer helpless, just way too needy.
I want them to feel loved and I want them to feel secure. I want them to feel protected and sheltered, yes. I don’t mind them counting on me to take necessary care of the needs they cannot meet for themselves like driving and grocery shopping, but I’m leaving their personal needs up to them now, increasing in order of their ages. My 8-year-old can still ask for a PB&J when she’s hungry. My 12-year-old better be in two casts and a wheelchair if she does. I prepare breakfast, pack school lunches and provide dinner, anything beyond that is not my problem to remedy. Saturdays I will not sit at a perch in the kitchen and continually prepare whatever it is each of them happens to fancy for lunch. Because they don’t respect me for it. Sure, they like it. They may even appreciate not having to get off their butts when they want a glass of water. But they do not realize that there is NO REASON they cannot do it for themselves.
I’m not granny with the cookies here. I’m no longer mommy with the sippy cups either. I’ve become the Bitchin’ Mama so you better check yourself before you wreck yourself because the gig is up. She’s on to greener pastures now.
Her heart will always be wrapped around her babes like a big, beautiful velvet ribbon, but there is still some length left on the spool to reach a little further, to a place where only she gets to go. In that place, no one is ever messy, hungry or bored.
