Sorry, folks, but I gotta to do it, and I’m warning you now so you can click the back button before it gets ugly. There. I said it. Carry on if you don’t want to hear my sorry whine. It won't hurt my feelings. I promise.
Being a single mom sucks. A lot. Surprised? Of course I knew that going in, but the energy required to parent my children alone in the quiet corners of the house, make money to pay bills, and live through some days without talking to one adult is tiring. The silly thing is I knew all that before my very-very-soon-to-be exhub and I separated. But it’s been 6 long months of living it and I’m flirting with a nervous breakdown. Most days I feel like I’ve got it together, but every now and then I’m begging someone to fit me in a straight jacket, load me with meds, and place me in a padded cell for 6 weeks.
The holidays were hard. And that seems an odd statement for me to make because it was a great time. The exhub and I shared a very pleasant Christmas and New Year’s with the kids, but a part of me was wishing I could catapult myself from my own life and land nicely in someone else’s.
I’ll own all my choices. I still believe they are the best ones for me and mine. I freelance from home because it affords me the ability to be with my kids as much as possible. What this job doesn’t provide me with is sick leave and vacation time, insurance benefits, or a guaranteed check every two weeks. So maybe my little pity party right now is directly proportional to the days I tried enjoying Christmas break with my children. The days I didn’t make as much writing.
And have I mentioned that I’m a worry wort? The two things that preoccupy my days are my children and my freelance. It seems I can't manage much else. My basement is full of unwashed clothes, my dining room table is lined with exactly 6 bins of clean, unfolded laundry, and I can't keep two rooms of my house clean at any given time. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve always had what I consider a domestic disability, but now I’m messy-squared and that can wear on a woman balancing on the cusp of a police-escorted ambulance ride to the local psych-ward, a la Britney Spears.
So there you have it. Four paragraphs full of Shauna’s very own private (okay, not true) pity party. Sorry guys. It was either that or I was going to wave down Mr. Crazy and ask him to stay at my house for awhile. So far this has kept him at bay.
Thanks for humoring me. I’m sure things will look better in the morning…