This weekend was a long one. For many reasons. We had too much to do, too little time with the kids and I was STILL sick with a fever (my monkey pox have now transformed into a sinus infection--bonus!). Needless to say, there were a few highs, but mostly this weekend felt like one big low. I felt like a slug who will never recover and have been on the verge of tears/a nervous breakdown for the last few days, including today.
Let's start with the highs, shall we:
Let Me Start By Saying threatened me with a shiv if I didn't get the balls to try red lips. So I did, for a friends wedding on Saturday. They helped distract from my overall monkey pox look of pasty white, clammy skin, and dark under eye circles. When I came out of the bathroom after applying the harlot red lip stain, The Quiet Contemplator looked at me and said, "Why you paint your mouth? I want you paint my mouth." Um..not for another 25 years, sweetheart. Anyway, my $3 tube of lipstick was a real spirit lifter and I highly recommend it. Thanks, Kim.
And then there were the lows:
I felt horrible all weekend. Feverish, exhausted, head felt like it could explode at any minute, sinus headache, you name it. I was a real peach to be around when I wasn't drunk on bourbon cocktails. Sunday was my all-time low. I was tired and crabby, sick for the 14th day in a row and just pissed off at the world. And I was a bad mommy.
Not in the I-fed-my-poor-children-non-organic-food-and-didn't-do-our-second-craft-of-the-day way. No, I was a mean mommy in the losing-my-shit-and-raising-my-voice-at-my-children's-every-move way. I was a bad parent. Even this morning.
When I went to check my temperature this morning and found that The Contemplator had changed the thermometer from Fahrenheit to Celsius, I lost it. Completely. I said things I instantly regretted. But the thing is? I am human. Though I felt like a hot pile of dog shit after it, shit happens.
Why do I share this horrible crap? Because none of us are perfect and I never aim to be. I do my best as a parent, but there will always be days where I feel like I need a mommy mulligan. We all do. And it is OK to grant yourself one every now and then.
Maybe next time we feel like like a crappy mom, we should give ourselves a minute in the bathroom, slap on a coat of red lipstick and move on. After you pour yourself a bourbon cocktail, of course.