The problem with being a woman is the pesky, pink dance of hormones and brains and heart. There are times when I am perfectly aware of how completely irrational I feel, and I still can't stop it.
When I want to say, "Please stay," what comes out is, "You might as well go."
When I want to say, "I'm the problem, and you're just a child trying to figure out the world", what comes out is, "Leave me alone right now."
When I want to say, "My belly is full of eels and my head is full of screaming and my heart feels like it's being crushed in a fancy peppermill from Olive Garden," what comes out is, "I don't feel so good."
Days like today, I'm inching toward moonlight.* Putting one foot in front of the other, never looking up because I know that the finish line will look so far away that I could crush it with my fingers. Crush, crush, crushing your head. Everything that touches me is abrasive, even loving pats from sticky little hands.
I have deadlines and emails and a book to write and people I love to connect with, and all I want to do is lay in my bed and watch the fan spin and put a pillow over my face and fall asleep. All I want is darkness and dreaming. In this mood, nothing I contribute could possibly be worthwhile, anyway. I'm drained, empty, out of answers to the interminable questions posed by a curious child. It's my job to answer, but I don't wanna.
Days like this, I want to wean my baby. I want to go back to kickboxing and slam my elbows into the pads again and again. I want to open my kitchen window and scream. I want to throw something just to hear it break, to have that satisfying feeling that I won some tiny, inconsequential battle with the atoms of the universe.
And the funny thing?
Nothing bad actually happened today.
No one died. No one was hurt. My house is 100% free of flooding. There were no bombs or rabid dogs, although I wish I had some brain bleach for the trailer of The Human Centipede that I watched yesterday. Ick.
I didn't get any bad news at all. I'm not even sick. I don't even know for sure what my problem is. But I sure as hell can articulate it, huh?
I think we're trained, as mothers, to suck it up on days like today. To believe that if nothing is wrong, then nothing is wrong. Before kids, I would have taken a sick day, stopped at the store for a slice of cake and some Ginger Ale, and crawled into bed for a Bring It On / Twilight / Sense and Sensability movie marathon. Back when I had the privilege of being sick, or even having an off day.
I chose this life. I love this life. But some days, I'm watching the clock, just like anybody sitting behind a desk.
The bad news: My clock never stops.
The good news: Tomorrow will be better. And if it's not, I'll make some damn cupcakes.
* Taken from the phrase "inching towards daylight" from the works of Matthew Woodring Stover. It's not the Donjon, but sometimes it's pretty close.