My anger expresses itself as impatience. It’s like having an invisible army tugging at my skin telling me to go faster, and not to accept anything that might slow me down. Impatience, meet the toddler, who is an excited ball of energy going at his own stubborn pace. Toddler and impatience, meet the newborn baby, who currently throws fits if not continuously held by me. To the invisible army, add a swarm of bees in my mind, and just out of reach, the solace of me-time on the couch, while both boys intermittently sleep, which hums over the chaos.
Having kids is a stressful, everyday joy. It takes an hour to get ready to leave the house to go anywhere. There’s a conga-line of clothing and diaper changes. The constant need of my attention and care, every day, all day and night. Then there’s the added stress of 3 p.m. when my step-son gets home from school, then it’s time to make fucking supper.
There’s the stress of how sadly fleeting these days are, that I don’t want to cheapen by never feeling calm and peace and enjoyment around my kids. I don’t want anger and impatience to rob me of their childhoods. I don’t want their memories polluted by my negativity. I didn’t get to have a childhood, and my parents were constantly stressed. I don’t want to repeat that. I want them to have banal things to complain about. I want them to have that luxury.