wrote this on a pretty bad day...glad i did. sorry for all the profanity.
22 march 2018
i've just fed my youngest dinner, left over ricotta pancakes from breakfast. we took the twins for celebratory pancakes after their student-led orientation morning today. as i sit in their playroom post dinner i am slumped over and i am consciously upset, livid even. i can't help but feel what a fucking waste of my life this all is and immediately the guilt seeped in as if on cue.
two months ago i sat in the boarding lounge before my flight to delhi. the post still lies unfinished in my draft folder. it sounded too hopeful, too 'motivational', to barf-worthy. i could not even stand reading it myself. i completed 2 weeks in delhi and flew home. inspired, recharged, impatient to sniff my children. i wonder how long this high will last, i thought to myself.
i came home and held onto my children tightly, tighter than i ever have. i realised how much i loved them suckers and for the first time i actually missed them. i could do it all i thought to myself. i did the school runs, got the groceries, cooked the meals, bathed them, fed them, put them to bed, happily. i didn't hound my husband on what time he'd be home, all expectations went out the window and i was grateful for whatever he could help me with if he could. i even managed to keep up my daily dance practice.
two weeks ago i burned half of my left arm in a kitchen grease fire and i am unable to carry my baby without leaving my wounds bleeding. my husband went back to work, continuing his work travel as if nothing happened and still it didn't bother me. i am so proud of me i thought. i didn't despise him, i didn't feel like a victim. i did what i had to do and went about my usual activities. i just prayed that my baby didn't poop between 4pm till 7am the next day because that was when my helper would not be around to help me.
this feeling of superheroism lasted for a week.
i am now in my second week of recovery and though parts of my arm has somewhat healed, my skin is as thin as tissue and any little thing rips it open again. i can barely bathe myself, put on the children's diapers and the one thing that is really killing me is that i can not dance.
i am trying. i am trying everything i possibly can but today i throw in the towel.
today my son complained about a tummy ache all the way to school, which he has never ever done in his life and my mummy radar knew that it was because he was nervous or scared about something. true enough, when we sat down with him as he opened his folder to show us his school work i immediately knew that he was nervous about what we would think of him and instantaneously i wanted to grab him tight, put him on my lap and kiss him and tell him that we could never be prouder of him. my heart broke. my fist-sized pumping blob shattered.
and it was only 8am.
my eldest daughter. the elder one of the twins has a problem with getting told off. she is a people pleaser and without approval and validation she crumbles into pieces and she reacts to this in the most obstinate manner i have ever seen in anyone including myself. she is only four. she knows how to push all of our buttons and is fully aware and capable of bursting capillaries in our brains. i have pictured smashing her against a wall more times than i can remember. but of course i have not.
after i came back from delhi i made a promise to myself to be more patient with my daughter. her stubborness after all comes from me, my husband, my mother, my father, his mother, his father, so i will try to be patient with her. hear her out, give her the time she needs to process her feelings, be available. you know...be an american mom. *rolls eyes*
well, fuck that.
today, my indian passive aggressive mother came out in full force and i ain't giving in. she has been under the dining table for close to two hours now. she hasn't had dinner. not that i offered her any to begin with.
it's 7pm and i am exhausted as fuck.
in two days i head back to kl to a haven't-been-cleaned-in-3-months apartment and as you can imagine, i am less than thrilled.
i could blame my hormones and call this pms but i am not going to do that.
i am tired as fuck.
tired as fucking fuckity fuck.
22 march 2018
i've just fed my youngest dinner, left over ricotta pancakes from breakfast. we took the twins for celebratory pancakes after their student-led orientation morning today. as i sit in their playroom post dinner i am slumped over and i am consciously upset, livid even. i can't help but feel what a fucking waste of my life this all is and immediately the guilt seeped in as if on cue.
two months ago i sat in the boarding lounge before my flight to delhi. the post still lies unfinished in my draft folder. it sounded too hopeful, too 'motivational', to barf-worthy. i could not even stand reading it myself. i completed 2 weeks in delhi and flew home. inspired, recharged, impatient to sniff my children. i wonder how long this high will last, i thought to myself.
i came home and held onto my children tightly, tighter than i ever have. i realised how much i loved them suckers and for the first time i actually missed them. i could do it all i thought to myself. i did the school runs, got the groceries, cooked the meals, bathed them, fed them, put them to bed, happily. i didn't hound my husband on what time he'd be home, all expectations went out the window and i was grateful for whatever he could help me with if he could. i even managed to keep up my daily dance practice.
two weeks ago i burned half of my left arm in a kitchen grease fire and i am unable to carry my baby without leaving my wounds bleeding. my husband went back to work, continuing his work travel as if nothing happened and still it didn't bother me. i am so proud of me i thought. i didn't despise him, i didn't feel like a victim. i did what i had to do and went about my usual activities. i just prayed that my baby didn't poop between 4pm till 7am the next day because that was when my helper would not be around to help me.
this feeling of superheroism lasted for a week.
i am now in my second week of recovery and though parts of my arm has somewhat healed, my skin is as thin as tissue and any little thing rips it open again. i can barely bathe myself, put on the children's diapers and the one thing that is really killing me is that i can not dance.
i am trying. i am trying everything i possibly can but today i throw in the towel.
today my son complained about a tummy ache all the way to school, which he has never ever done in his life and my mummy radar knew that it was because he was nervous or scared about something. true enough, when we sat down with him as he opened his folder to show us his school work i immediately knew that he was nervous about what we would think of him and instantaneously i wanted to grab him tight, put him on my lap and kiss him and tell him that we could never be prouder of him. my heart broke. my fist-sized pumping blob shattered.
and it was only 8am.
my eldest daughter. the elder one of the twins has a problem with getting told off. she is a people pleaser and without approval and validation she crumbles into pieces and she reacts to this in the most obstinate manner i have ever seen in anyone including myself. she is only four. she knows how to push all of our buttons and is fully aware and capable of bursting capillaries in our brains. i have pictured smashing her against a wall more times than i can remember. but of course i have not.
after i came back from delhi i made a promise to myself to be more patient with my daughter. her stubborness after all comes from me, my husband, my mother, my father, his mother, his father, so i will try to be patient with her. hear her out, give her the time she needs to process her feelings, be available. you know...be an american mom. *rolls eyes*
well, fuck that.
today, my indian passive aggressive mother came out in full force and i ain't giving in. she has been under the dining table for close to two hours now. she hasn't had dinner. not that i offered her any to begin with.
it's 7pm and i am exhausted as fuck.
in two days i head back to kl to a haven't-been-cleaned-in-3-months apartment and as you can imagine, i am less than thrilled.
i could blame my hormones and call this pms but i am not going to do that.
i am tired as fuck.
tired as fucking fuckity fuck.
