Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, Over? (A WTF?! Post)

I have this sick obsession with perfection.

Don’t misread that, though.

Notice I didn’t say, I have this sick obsession and I’m always perfect. I am pretty far from that noise.

But I beat myself up often. I have lists that I lose telling me all the things that I need to do to make my life easier. I have ideas in my head about what my kids should behave like, what my house should look like, and what size I should really be. (No muffin tops make it into my daily hallucinations.)

I tend to gloss my life over in my blog. I subscribe to the “positive thoughts bring positive outcomes” mantra and I generally try not to kvetch and moan in my posts.

But holy crap, BatCrazy.

I’m drowning here.

And I think I’ll take a minute and talk about it for once. My poor husband can’t take anymore of my preferred method of dealing (holding it in until I have an atomic meltdown and freakout).
In the past 24 hours I have really screwed the pooch a few times.

In addition to cheating on the chores and the daily to-dos, I’ve manage to piss of a supervisor at work, screw up meeting notes, and spill coffee all over my desk (and paperwork.)

I’ve gloriously screwed up a chance to teach a kid’s writing workshop at the local library by being a couple days late getting the proposal to the librarian. She wasn’t very nice when she emailed this afternoon and told me, essentially, “thanks, but you’re too much of a flake right now…try back in 2025 when you’re kids are grown and you’ve got yourself together.”

I mean, obviously, she didn’t say those exact words…but that’s what I gleaned from her two-line dismissal. And the truth of the whole thing is that I am crushed. I was really looking forward to that October even (Yes, she’s a bit of a driver, isn’t she? The damn event wasn’t for two months!)

The toughest part of this season of my life boils down to one thing: I’ve got a million “sparks” going of in my head that I want to chase down. I have a perfect version of myself that I want to be—that slimmed down, organized, spiritual, civic-minded SAINT that tortures me from the recesses of my brain.

But it seems I don’t exactly have the life to support it at the moment.

I have three beautiful children. (And one fantastic, supportive and busy husband.)

All three kids are at incredibly needy, demanding stages right now that just don’t encourage long jags at the computer, recycling, or really, any other productive activities during their waking hours. (I ran a vacuum over the carpet between unloading my work items and serving dinner…and you would have thought I’d neglected them for days on end with all the clamoring they did to be heard over the din of the vacuum’s engine).

I had a twenty minute conversation with one of my best friends via text last night. She had to text message me off al edge because I really couldn’t take my attention off the toddler at that particular moment—had I taken the time to call her, he would have stolen my keys and driven himself to Pizza Hut. I had to express my roiling emotions with a damned emoticon.

I know, I know. Cut everyone a little slack.

Me. The hubs. The second-grader who started school this week. The two-year old who is, well, two years old (poor guy!). The brand new baby in a house of crazies.

But it’s hard. And when I’m crying with my face stuffed in the stained sofa (what is that oblong blob, anyway?!), all I can think about is: rinse and repeat.

“Every day is the same. You’ll never get your laundry folded or your book written.” rolls on a repeating loop with sinister pipe organ music grinding away in the background and Vincent Price laughing that “Thriller” laugh at me. Creepy!

I know it’s not exactly true and that I have a flair for the dramatic, but in my dark moments, when I’m sniffling or texting my woes away, I feel like a hamster in a big ass wheel. An annoying squeaky one, too.

What’s the solution?

I’m not exactly sure, but I’ve realized that mom’s have an amazing superpower that I should embrace rather than fight. It’s called “goldfish brain” and it boils down to the ability to forget the tornado that today was and start anew. Sure, tomorrow’s probably going to be another crazy day full of hiccups and stubbed toes, but if I learn to forget today’s frustrations, there’s no compounding effect. New slate. Wiped clean. Ready, and, go.

Brilliant, right?

So for all the missteps I had this week—those meeting notes I botched, the workshop I lost, the weight watcher points I didn’t track, the jiu jitsu class I skipped yesterday…I forgive myself. I forgive myself and start over tomorrow.

Hellooo, goldfish brain. Goodbye bashing my head against the closest…wait…is that a new plastic castle?