I realize that my life is amazing.
I have three kids who are healthy, smart, beautiful, and a lot of the time, they are flat out hilarious.
I know this. I know that something like 90% of the globe would be shitting in their pants to wake up every day (in response to a too-smart smartphone) in a climate controlled house, next to a heart-burstingly beautiful husband, to wake my children and make lunches from a full cupboard. And then send them off to get an education in a safe and nurturing environment. While I stay at home to play with the baby and watch educational tv.
I know that by having ANY complaints I am a mindbending bitch.
But I have to be able to say it somewhere – things feel so worn. So generic. I feel like I make as much impact as a sandpapered rubber stamp.
My husband works so hard. He works and does and makes sure we have what we need. He’s a dad and a podcast-er and my very best friend. Being anything less than doting and Stepford is, I realize, a failing of mine.
But basically I sit at home and wait for something to happen. Anything. My days feel like a series of wait.
For the bus
For the kids to come home
For Lucy to give me five minutes
For the dryer to finish
For the coffee to brew
For Josh to come home
For the oven to heat
I realize I’m being a big whiny baby, but I just feel like I’m missing something. I feel like I’m a week or so away from talking to the car upholstery, but if I up and say something like, “I just wish something would happen,” then someone will die or get sick or blow up.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my life and everything about it. I am grateful.
But, I admit, grateful is sometimes boring. Even if that makes me a bitch.