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The Worst Version of Myself


I am not cut out to spend all of my time with small children.  I wish I was.  I wish I found joy and blessings and meaning in every moment with them.  

But I don't.  And I feel ungrateful even uttering those words.  I know, logically, I am lucky.  A generous maternity leave package and our low cost of living means that I can stay home for awhile.  I do not have to hand my 6 week old baby over to another caregiver to be looked after.  Yes, lucky.  I know.

But.  Days are so often like cookie cutter images of themselves. The same activities. The same chores.  The same grubby house.  They same well trodden route to town, to the swimming pool, to the park.  I have lovely mummy friends, but they have lives and work and things to do and I can't count on them for entertainment.


Once again, I find my self sinking.  It happened last time when I was off with Ellis.  I struggle to get out of bed.  I struggle to find the joy in even the most joyous of things.  Knitting lies untouched.  Dinner sits unmade.  Children are treated with less kindness then they deserve.  

On my best days, I enjoy the easy flow to time at home with my wee ones.  On my worst days, I become incredibly destructive.  They other day, I threw away everything I've sewn for Georgia because they weren't good enough (I rescued them later).  

I wish I could be a woman who delights in my home life.  I wish I could be someone who finds they day to day a source of inspiration.  But I am not her, or at least I am not her all of the time.  And definitely not today.   

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