I've been feeling disappointed in myself lately. I'm naturally very hard on myself, so my current state of self-disappointment should come as no surprise to my mother, friends, readers, people I pass by on the street, and even people on airplanes looking way down at the speck of me from the clouds. Alas!
Sigh, it's not that bad. But, still, I've been hard on myself since I was an average-sized kid struggling to lose 30 pounds because my dance teacher told me to, and even earlier than that, like, since I was born and cried for 10 straight months presumably because I thought I sucked -- until that fateful day when it snowed in July and I stood on broken legs (another story) gazing out the windows in awe.
I tend to go from there to there when it comes to motherhood. I'm either exploding in frustration or gazing in awe at the two little wonders pulling each other's hair out before me. My daughter, 4, and my son, 2 -- half her age, as I like to remind her, not that she quite understands that yet. And they're getting past the stage where people take pity on me for being, say, tired or frazzled or at wit's end. My kids aren't "babies" any more. I can't go around telling people how exhausted I am anymore, and I can't complain about how challenged I feel all the time -- "because this is motherhood," they tell me, shrugging their shoulders, "and it ain't gonna get any easier."