Sometimes I love my life here. It feels right. It feels like the best life I could be leading. I glow with the satisfaction of finally finding my groove in the world and being surrounded by the people I love.
And sometimes I loathe it (betcha knew that was coming.) Sometimes I want to throttle people, including my sweet and well-intentioned husband, quite specifically, for bringing attention to the fact that I'm not currently feeling the love. So what. Let it alone. Set course for the calmer waters ahead and stay out of my rocky lagoon. That much should be clear.
Lately I've been feeling these bi-polar extremes very, painfully, close together. It's like putting heated glass into icewater. I'm straining to keep from shattering under all the required expansion. I know I'm obscenely hormonal these days. I can feel its inner workings. I know that when I feel the irritation and despair coming on, that there is no sensible reason for it, that I cannot explain it to anyone because how do you defend an emotion other than to say that it's simply there and there's not much you can do about it other than various methods of distraction and probably some necessary but unavailable isolation.
I admit that I'm having some worrisome feelings about all the changes underfoot. As much as I look forward to another little person in the house, we don't have room for another baby. We're already all crammed into a single bedroom. And we don't have money for a larger house. I am realizing that being a business owner/operator and a mother/wife is not enough. I need to be just simply "me" somewhere, and I'm realizing, particularly in light of a new baby, that that will be sacrificed for at least another few years. Years in which we will likely be risking financial ruin...again...to get a house that fits our lives. God. The idea of everyone having their own bedroom makes me weep with hypothetical joy.
That's it, no happy, clean wrap-up. Carry on. Make it work.