Sometimes the best you can hope for on a friday night is to get half way through a hazelnut chocolate bar without sharing with anyone.
I may be somewhat of a late bloomer, but I never seem to fully wrap my head around the fact that I cannot keep everyone happy. I admit, it doesn't help to have a chronic, self-inflicted case of thats-just-not-good-enough-itis to exacerbate the situation.
People told me that this was going to be hard. Those self-righteous, soother-grabbing, sadistic, clucking old biddies who chided me to enjoy them while they were little, for it was only going to get harder when they grew taller. Gloating, heartless, and inhuman old things.
I don't remember being warned about all the decisions that go along with this. I don't remember being told that I'd second-guess every single faltering decision that I did make. And what about this fantasy that mommy can make everything all better? Did we get any practise at that between the he-he and the hoo-hoo breathing at prenatal classes? I don't remember the lesson on "Every Wednesday, Someone Will Begin To Vomit Violently". Was I sick that day? And what about all this lip service I hear about equality? Who forgot to tell the children? When their daddy goes to bed, NO ONE EVER CALLS HIM. Mommy, on the other hand, is required to tuck, and re-tuck up to forty-two separate and complete times per nocturnal cycle. Times four.
I hear the other half of that chocolate bar calling out to be tucked in. And the wine is feeling lonely....