Rollercoaster

What  rollercoaster my life has become.

In many ways life is easier and I feel more in control of my life.

I've started my graphic design business (website still in progress) and I am deriving a great deal of satisfaction from my work. I love it. And I like feeling productive and seeing a final product - that lasts. Something concrete that will not be undone in 5 minutes. Something finished in a specific time period. A day. A week. A month. Not like child rearing, where one's success may not be truly seen until that child is well into adulthood.

Satisfaction. Immediate results. Success. I like that.

The husband hasn't been working overtime at all lately. It's been nice to have him home regularly. This way we share the load a lot more. Along with respite and help from my parents and friends, things don't feel so bad most of the time. Things feel good. And I can laugh at the goofy things Finleigh does. And when she defies me and refuses to do what I ask, I am able to just breathe and patiently wait for her to do what I ask. I have energy to clean the house. Cook decent meals. Volunteer in the community.

But it doesn't take much to take me back to that dark, frustrated, life draining feeling that I felt so often when she was younger. This is the first full day I've been home alone with her in awhile and any motivation or energy or joy that I've had lately is gone. Completely and utterly disappeared. I walk into a room that she's inhabited recently and I just walk out. Crestfallen. Feeling guilty that I'm leaving it a mess, but unable to muster enough energy to fix it.

My bedsheets, that I just washed yesterday, are now covered in hand cream that I had in my bedside table because I got complacent and let my guard down. And because I neglected to lock my bedroom door this morning when I went downstairs. It will probably stain, just like the lip balm she smeared on our bedding last week. The bedding was an expensive splurge because I loved it. I still love it... but it's worn and stained now. A perfect metaphor for life.

And so, when she came downstairs covered in lotion from my bedroom I took her to a towel and told her to wipe herself off. Then I went upstairs and cleaned up the mess, as much as I could since the laundry is currently in use. And then I put the lotion back in my ensuite that has to be locked from the outside to keep her out at night and locked my door.

I hate having to lock every single door in my house.

Hate. It.

A lot.

Now I'm sitting her sulking and wishing - just a little bit - for a normal life. I count my blessing and look at all the breakable things in my house that still exist. But still mourn that fact that I can't keep fucking lotion or lip balm in my bedside table.

It's the little things, I guess.