Hell

My two year old boy is standing on top of my cooler. Its two days after New Years Eve, and my husband still hasn't put the cooler back in the basement. Its one of those nice ones that we bought with money we don't have. We used to take it with us every year to the convention where we first met - it would sit beside us, filled with alcoholic beverages while we enjoyed a three-day weekend of carefree partying. Its the same cooler he takes now with his friends to the football stadium, while he relives his glory days. Men seem to be like that - they can spend an evening or two out with each other and completely forget that they have responsibilities at home. Sometimes I'll go out for a Girls Night Out, but we usually talk about kids the whole time. And we don't take the cooler with us. These parties we throw in our tiny house are my only real ties to that pre-kid world. We'll put out lots of food, play games, bring out Rock Band for the Wii, and have plenty to drink. People are always invited to crash in our living room rather than drive. Of course, they tend to act grouchy when I wake them up at 7am the next morning. What they don't understand is that I wake up at 7am EVERY morning without a break because that's when my daughter (18 months) and my son (34 months) wake up. Yes, they are 16 months apart. Yes it was planned. No that wasn't a good idea.
So here I am, in hell. My son is standing on top of the cooler because its much easier to access the stuff I keep out of his reach when he is 5 feet tall instead of 2 feet tall. He is naked. He no longer likes to wear his diaper, even though he still doesn't see a need to pee and poo in a toilet. His sister is discovering the joy of toilet paper. My living room is now a sea of white. I know eventually I will have to fix the messes being created on my right and left. But at the moment, I prefer to tune out. To write this blog and hope it finds meaning somewhere. Because I have to believe there is more out there than just this. Kids were supposed to be a joyful experience. Being a mother was supposed to be the most wonderful thing to ever happen. And yet, somehow having all freedom, identity and personal space stolen from me makes me feel deflated. And angry.
I am the angry housemom.