I’ve been doing a ton of self-reflecting lately, mostly to figure out why I can’t embrace the misery and love my family. Other people seem to be doing it. Why can’t I? This introspection has prompted several trips down memory lane, the longest of which was to another godforsaken time in my life when I was a stay-at-home mom with four children under 5. Talk about being miserable. Minimal adult interaction, debilitating boredom (“No. More. Polly Pockets!”) broken only by short bursts of crisis management (“Whose blood is this?”) and pure jealousy that my husband, Doo, got to leave the house each morning to do important, grown-up things.
Then it hit me. I’ve been writing this column for 13 years. Thirteen! I started as a way to cope with my “domestic role,” to vent my fears and frustrations about parenting and marriage. Also because some really funny shtick happens in a house full of rugrats that simply had to be shared. Ever witness a toddler poo fight? Classic.
Though I’m now a working mom of mostly adult kids, this column has remained a weekly ritual that allows me to analyze and purge the emotions I bottle up (because big girls don’t cry!). Rage, bitterness, the overwhelming desire to judge other women — I have an outlet to express myself and hopefully connect with like-minded people (I know you’re there!) This column is therapy — so much so that I still look forward to sitting down and writing. It gives me perspective on “the misery” and reminds me that I do, in fact, love my family, even though I constantly want to off them.