Jan. 26, Feast of Sts. Timothy and Titus.
"A portrait of my child, once a week, every week, in 2014."
HELP, I'm going out of my mind. On a scale of one to ten, my anxiety level is at an 11. Today, my almost-three-year-old flooded the kitchen from the kitchen tap, took off all his clothes and pooped all over himself and the carpet, drank a vial of blessed holy oil given to me by my godmother, pulled out all the clothes from the dresser, poured his pink medicine on the comforter, flushed God-knows-what down the toilet (by the time I made it to look, whatever-it-was was long gone), somehow got hold of my energy drink (which I have to have to function due to an un/mis-diagnosed medical ailment--my body doesn't make energy, but doctors insist that there's nothing wrong--I've only lived in my body my entire life, but whatever), unscrewed all the knobs from every drawer and cabinet, and is generally a nuisance in every single way.
Oh wait, now he's just spilled milk all over the floor. And yes, I do retreat to my computer, to writing poetry, to my books that take me out of the present because if I don't stop the anxiety with some sort of cork to absorb the impact, I think I will really. just. burst like so many cans of soda jumbled about in the shopping cart and then thrown into the trunk of the car, loose and rolling.
Um . . . one day I'll miss this? This age? This babyness? Right? It's just a bad day? Do you ever get that dead-weight leaden feeling that you just weren't supposed to be a mom? Like, you just don't have it in you? Like, you're about good for making up an interesting story and writing it down in a pretty way but that's it? Like introspective, powerfully sensitive and emotionally unstable artist types oughtn't procreate? Don't get me wrong, I'm no Sylvia Plath. But I seem to be detecting a pattern.
Saint Ann, pray for us!!