Set me free why doncha babe

Set me free why don't you babe
Get out my life, why don't you babe
cause you don't really love me,
you just keep me hangin' on.

You don't really need me
You just keep me hangin' on


The terrible thing about being an occasional blogger is that when you don't do it consistently, you tend to only reach out when things are wrong. So it paints a picture, a distorted one, of your reality. Were i to look back at this pregnancy solely via blog posts, there was nothing - and I mean nothing - joyous about it.

Yet outside of this blog, days - many days - were glorious. There were times when I could have cried with affection for the littlest human in our house, who cracks me up daily. I adore my husband - although I've been known, and have likely been overheard, threatening him. And there have been a few instances - far between it feels lately - but a few, where I felt affection, kinship and camaraderie amongst friends.

And then. And then at times when it's a million degrees inside and out, and I'm frustrated and sad and angry - I think that this - this is not the life I should be leading and certainly not a life that can be defined as "living" and instead of feeling happiness and elation that the beasts are almost as safe as can be, I'm feeling... burdened.

I hesitate to complain.
I used to read - faithfully and religiously - a friend, a cyber friends blog, who's real name is Brian. And man. Man oh man for the most part can I get into his head. I loved reading him, and a few others then one day I quit. I quit because I was trite, a theme I've said often before, and I quit because he was unemployed, scared, struggling and I was pissing on about something like where to park my Lexus or why didn't my diaper bag have thermal pocket. (I don't have a Lexus I'm being illustrative...)I quit reading and then I quit writing because what I was going on about was SUCH a microcosm of a life. It was what did and didn't go on in these 4 walls. Every slight magnified, every small instance larger then it needed to be. Every dialogue mulled over, every fight replayed. One friend losing her mind with financial worries, another frustrated with her children, a third with her marriage - and I nattered on about "somebody done me wrong" Feeling misunderstood, feeling alone, feeling abandoned.

So I stopped blogging.

In truth, for the longest time now I've just been eeking out existing. I'm tired. I'm sick. I've been 34 weeks pregnant since week 25, I'm measuring over 40 weeks at a mere 32. I hate everything about how I feel, and while I don't deplore my looks, I've certainly shelved them. I can't bend, my hands cramp in the night and the feeling only marginally disperses during the day then it's pain again. My stomach rests on my thighs, one child rests on my ribs. I'm in pain, immobile and sad. Sad at my inability to move anything - either rock, paper or scissors.

But what I hate most of all is the feeling of NOT living while the world around you is.

I've always hated summer.
People jetting off to Nantucket, to Maine, to beach and shore destinations. People broker then me on vacation, camping, parents with cottages, friends with boats.
Cookouts and camp outs.
I longed - long - for summer to end.
It feels like a party I don't belong to.
A club I don't have a pass to.
People hate Mondays? I adore them. Life with a purpose resumes.
People hate rainy days? Me? Not usually. The air cools and generally I "get shit done"

But this year, this year, summer has smacked me in the face, as have my choices in general.

Five years.
Five years I have been with my husband.
Five quick, incredibly quick years.

Years that I can sum up, that he frequently sums up, that I finally am acknowledging, five years of nothing but work.

Not work on "the relationship", not work as in Troubles, I got Troubles.
Just frigging nothing but tedium.

We met and I was in the process of buying this house (work), then I moved in (work), then my job moved and we had to decide if I was going to sell (6 weeks after I bought it. Boss = asshole(tons of work, talking, decisions), then he moved in he moved in (minor work), then we were pregnant right away (TONS of work), Ellie was born and the first year was insane (work, double work) then there was my trying to prove myself, running a large church playgroup (more work then you can imagine) then there was another miscarriage (workish), then the home renovation(fuckload of work), then this pregnancy(nothing but a misery).

So for 5 years it's never been "our turn". Its never been about fun, frolic, independence. going away seemed a chore, a week at the beach a pain. It's been buckle down, sacrifice, work hard - because that's the only path I'm truly, astonishingly excellent at. If nothing else, I'm fan.. and I mean FAN... TASTIC at working hard.

I'm a whiz at sacrifice.
I'm a master of denying myself.
I can live with a broken phone, shitty curtains and a craigslist table. For years. YEARS.
Because I.am.good.at.going.without.

And here's the thing.
Here is the crazyass thing.

We didn't need to.

Oh I know, I know, it's tacky beyond fucking words to talk about money.
Insanely.
But honestly, we HAD money these last 5 years. Good money. Not rich like live in NY in a highrise but for quasi middle class people, we had enough money to do anything ANYTHING we wanted.

And I fucked it up. I opted for home repair over vacation.
I opted to work and organize and struggle instead of play.
I have spent my entire relationship with my husband, and in this house, creating then managing work.
And I am astonishingly, superbly annoyed.
Because just as life was getting good. Fabulously good - she was independent, we were finished with repairs, everything was smoothly going our way - JUST as life got good, we decided to get pregnant.
And it's been a fucking misery ever since.
Because of course, OF COURSE, of course I didn't get pregnant with one.
Whyever.
It had to be twins.
And it's been nothing but work ever since.
Managing caretakers, managing drs appts, managing space, rearranging rooms, clearing closets, being sick - good christ - sicker then a dog. Managing work, with zero zero joy.

And here it is summer again.
Facebook photo's of boys shoveling sand, lighthouses, coolers frosty, kids with cones, sangria playdates, pools overflowing.

And here I am, harness in hand, legs swollen to my knees, meeting with movers today who moved my husbands desk to the basement as we try valiantly to create livable space for the two newest midgets.

Because instead of moving I made the compelling argument that it was easier to stay. Because instead of stepping forward, I'm clinging to the past. To security, to old habits, to being a drudge. So we are here, reconfiguring 1100 sq feet to fit 5 of us. And I say "oh but we'll move later" because hell, let's just ensure that we have enough work for next year too.

And I've tried to convince myself that this was the right decision. Because work at least made me useful. Had I not worked at things, truly, what else could i have done all these months? I wasn't allowed the beach, to walk, to lift. we couldn't have traveled, vacationed, enjoyed. So why not work?

And over the last few weeks I realized something.
It's not fair.
To my husband, to my daughter. To my family.

Tonight I saw my husband go to bed, exhausted. Weary. Beat up. From moving piles, moving things.

Yes, it's his fault for waiting until the last minute but it's my fault for being busy with everything else and not pushing, putting, my family first.

I recycled, I donated, I designed this brochure, I worked on that blog, I supported this charity, I yardsaled for that toy. Countless hours perpetuating a virtuous righteous life vs a beneficial one.. Sure that my sacrifices were "worth it" because they were of the kind that you can self congratulate or be lauded for. "Oh she RECYCLES" but in the end. Watching the world live their lives, realizes that I've chosen an inarguable way for us NOT to live ours, I see, I see so clearly, that I have been, in a word, wrong.

So I'm done. I am turning the page.
I am turning over a new leaf.
I am... going to change.
I'm putting me first. Doug first. Ellie first.
I'm going to ask myself, before I take one single step, is what I am about to do going to benefit me. Is it worth it. do I want to do this or simply feel that its the "right" thing to do?

I don't know how, or if I can, or how long it will take but starting tomorrow, today actually, now to be more specific, I'm going to be an asshole.

And I'm kind of excited about it.

And next summer?
Next summer we're going to rent a place on a beach. and fuck it, I may hire a nanny to come stay with us.

Because THAT'S the way this cookie is going to roll.
You got the first 40 years, the next 40 are mine.

And this time, this time I mean it.