I am D-O-N-E.
I like to joke that my kids may end up killing me.
With their sassy little attitudes, determination to do ANYTHING but what I tell them to do, and their sheer endless energy.
Little did I know that I may actually be on to something.
Two nights ago, as I was getting ready for bed, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
It disgusted me for all new reasons...there was a nasty red rash right on the middle of my stomach.
I gasped and ran to tell Joe who (of course) could barely muster a "Oh really?" (He didn't even ask to see it!)
This was a big deal to me. It's not often (or EVER) that I have a rash.
And it itched. And then burned after I itched it.
We decided it was probably heat rash and forgot about it (well, Joe did. I could hardly forget about it when it was constantly itching. And then burning.)
Fast forward to today when I decided to show Joe the new pattern the rash began making.
His face said it all. He told me I needed to see a doc.
Of course, I googled my symptoms and scared myself half to death with all the things it could be.
Luckily, I can rule out the Bubonic plague and leperosy.
But...one thing stuck out to me.
I made plans to go to the local MedExpress (after I could arrange a sitter of course. God forbid Mom can get medical treatment on the spur of the moment.)
The doc took one 3-second look and said, "It's shingles."
Just as I suspected.
There are three causes of shingles, I learned: Being over 60 makes you more susceptible, having a compromised immune system (Cancer or HIV), and stress.
I'll let you guess which one applies to me.
My stress has 5 (okay, 6) names.
Being a SAHM is awesome...and may be the death of me. Seriously.
I HATE those nights (which happen much too frequently for my liking) where I sit down after the kids are in bed, survey the tornado of mess that they left behind (despite 5 million requests, threats, and demands to clean it up) and think, "I hate how mean I was today."
It's a day full of the kids fighting and yelling at one another, answered by me yelling at them (irony? stupidity?)
Messes being made and cleaned up (by yours truly) and then made again.
Constant food demands and subsequent dirty diapers.
Crap left in every room no matter how many times I recite "Toys stay in the playroom!"
I say each of their names so many times in regard to "Stop hitting your sister" or "NO kicking your brother" that I no longer like the sound of the name.
The paradoxical "STOP BEING SO LOUD, THE BABY IS SLEEPING!!"
I get more exercise from the 35 attempts I make to sit and eat a meal-but then get interrupted to get them a drink, or another piece of bread, or a paper towl, etc etc.- than I do from going to the gym.
My diet, while fantastic for my waistline has now (at least in my opinion) added to this odd disease I now have.
I used to comfort myself with food when I got stressed. Now I have...nothing.
Therefore, the stress festers and manifests itself into these red, sore, itchy, bubbles on my stomach that have traveled around my side and onto my back.
The stress of staying on a diet to be healthy may actually be making me sick!
At least that's what I plan to tell Jenny when I explain how I shamelessly ate 2 slices of pizza for dinner tonight. And not Jenny pizza.
The medicine prescribed for these blisters? Horse pills.
I get to take 3 of them a day for one week.
What is supposed to make me better may end up choking me to death.
I tried the ole guilt trip with the kids tonight. I showed them the rash (to a chorus of "ew's") and explained how I got the rash from them being naughty, not listening and being crabby. I told them they needed to listen since mommy is not feeling well. "Okay, mommy."
That lasted for all of 5 minutes. Then it was right back to punches and round house kicks.
I know when Joe gets home (after going to the gym when his shift ends at 9 PM) he'll probably remark on the condition of the house.
That's enough to make me go through the roof.
It brings to mind the on-point lyrics to "One Head Light" by the Wallflowers:
This place is always such a mess
Sometimes I think I'd like to watch it burn
Would I actually like to watch it burn? Of course not.
But I sure wouldn't mind an "Alice" who lived in, cleaned, and cooked for me and my brood.
What exactly did Carol Brady do anyway when she wasn't busy shopping for bell bottoms or getting her fe-mullet trimmed??
So, all that to say, I've had it. I am toast. I need a break.
And that break will come in about 18 years (or so they say) when the youngest heads out to college.
A night out with my husband without weeks of pre-planning would work wonders for me.
A night out without fear or guilt that the kids are crying the whole time would also be nice.
And would it be too much to ask that said night out not have to surround a prior commitment. Just a night where we go and do whatever we want. Like a movie.
Do you know how long it's been since I've been to a movie??
Don't feel it's necessary to remind me what treasures I have and how thankful I should be for these little babies.
I know all that.
Really. I do.
I only say these things to all of you because it's easy to do so behind the comfort and relative anonymity of the keyboard.
I'm blowin off some steam.
And it sure beats cleaning up this mess.