Edges

 (Please don't read this one, Mom)
I'm a frayed edge. It's been one of those days, those weeks; too little sleep, too much yelling. Every outing a trial. Nights too short. Days too long. And the weight of everything that has ever gone wrong drags at my feet, pulling me under. The pressure, man, the pressure, and I kick and flail trying to get back up to sweet, clear air.

How many people had perfect childhoods? Where mom and dad stayed together, and you lived in the same house forever, and there were no health issues, and there were no divisions in the family beyond a black sheep uncle that drank too much at Christmas and pissed in the potted palm. What percentage of people do you suppose fall into that category? 25%? 10%? 2%?

I feel like I'm yelling so much these days. That my daughter is constantly tugging at me. Both literally and figuratively as she presses each one of my buttons for maximum effect. Three is turning out to be really, really hard. We're only a month in and my nerves are stretched so thin. I yell at Sophie, I snip at Neil. I don't call my friends because my mind is so full of being a mommy that I can't seem to pull more scintillating things out even when I'm not complaining. I used to be interesting, if I do say so myself. Some even thought me downright funny.

Tell me it gets easier. Tell me there is a day coming when I don't feel like I belong under psychiatric care. Tell me that occasionally regretting being a stay at home mom is normal. That I'm not the only one feeling so completely and wholly incompetent at the task. Tell me I'll fit into those jeans again.

I want my kid to be in that 2%. But right now? I feel like I'm setting her up for a lifetime of therapy.