The night before fathers day 2017

I’m sure this is poorly timed. Like very. But fuck it, I need to write. And I just keep thinking that mothers need more. Like, we need mothers day once a week. Because last night, when he said it was the weekend and smiled and cheered and I only felt grumpy and depressed, I realized, I’m in trouble. Like what happened to being happy it is the weekend? He’s home, we get to be a family, do things together, visit other families with little ones, grocery shop, maybe take a hike, ya know, things like that. But also, the house gets twice as messy, I’m never sure when I’m on and when I’m off, my sacred time alone when they nap evaporates into chores or discussion, and the expectations of it being the weekend and therefore about to be something fun and rewarding leave me Sunday night more exhausted than Friday, and jaded that yes, in fact, we are becoming that typical American family with kids. Ugh. Puke. Seriously.

And I want to get jazzed about Fathers day, I do. Really. I want I want to. I love my dad. He rocked it and still does. Solid. And I love my partner and baby daddy. He also rocks it big time. But when my back has been locked for days and I still have to go to work 7 days a week and I’m desperate for someone to just love me up for a few hours on all levels, when I’m so wanting him to blaze me with his powerful attention and help me open to the softer part of my being, I find myself shutting down when trying to ‘get ready’ for fathers day. Which of course is, by the way, a camping trip in the rain with our two toddlers. Our first camping trip that is. In a tent. And don’t get me wrong, I’m a camper. I love the woods. I love sleeping on the earth. I love cooking soup on a tiny stove and eating with a stick. I love the many red marks I return home with from that last mosquito or 7 that wouldn’t leave the tent . I actually do. But packing for 4 for an overnight where I’m pretty sure no one is gonna sleep much seems too much for this weary mama. Damn timing. Can’t fathers day be in a month or so when its warmer, when I’m not about to leave for my first alone trip? When its not the weekend before a family reunion camping trip that includes 6 hours of driving? When our girls are like 7 and they can make the cards and cake and go on a solo camping trip with their dada? I will smile as they head down the driveway. I’m sure of it.

I should be more positive. I should be more of a loving almost wifie. I should be a list of things society and my corrupted mind agrees to. But I’m not. And generally I don’t feel bad about it. But this one I do. I want to be ready to celebrate this awesome man who takes care of us so fully. But I’m not. I want it to be mothers day every Sunday. For at least a year. And then we can have Fathers day.

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