Feeling a bit…  frazzled…  frayed…  generally discombobulated.  Professionally, I feel on top of the world.  Living up clients and having to turn some away due to conflicting estimated due dates and whatnot.  I would like to spend some time with my family this Summer, as well.  Skeeter will celebrate his first birthday this July, so I’d like to be present for that and a few other big moments.  It’s all so exciting, but a bit scary.  My name and my face will be out there, pieces of people’s lives and memories.  Forever.  I can’t screw this up.  I have to do a good job.  I have to do an unbelievable job.  And I will.  I think of all the things I f*ck up, this may be the one thing I am good at.  Maybe.  Perhaps?  Hopefully?  We’ll see.  Right now, I am uncharacteristically optimistic.  Uncharacteristically.

         

I want to tell a friend where she can shove it.  She’s not getting anything from me.  Except for that one thing that I sort of already did…  Because she dug her own grave made her own bed, and now she should lie in it.  Or whatever.  And I really want to stick with that.  But the part of me that I think will make such a great doula, the part that feels it has to mother every thing and everyone, won’t let me.  Damn nurturing instinct.  Damn it all!

          I am snapping.  At every thing.  At everyone.  All the time.  Except when I have to be in front of people I don’t know well or aren’t 100% comfortable with.  Like at play group.  I put on a happy face and ask the basic mommy questions like, "Should I keep trying to potty train Mega Man who has now given up on the potty and actually gets upset when you ask him to try?"  And I truly listen to and appreciate their answers, but the facade is there, in full force.  Shielding me.  Shielding them.  Hiding what truly lies beneath.  Because God help me if they see The Beast Within.  They’ll never let their kids play with mine.  Because their mom is crazy, so the kids must be damaged, too, right?  RIGHT?! 

          And I’m not good enough.  At anything.  I am slowly putting together my doula bag because having it ready, complete with change of clothes and Powerade, just makes it more real.  It threatens to crush my optimism and just prove what I "know" everyone is thinking.    That I can’t do this.  That I will get bored and give up on it like I do everything else I like.  I change my interests more often than most people change their underwear.  And yes, I know that.  But this is different.  But that bag in the van, or by the door, just makes it more real.  It weighs on me like a weight…  A shadow that falls over you in a dark alley when you are alone without a cell phone or anything to defend yourself with.  It whispers, "Give up now before you hurt someone or make an ass of yourself.  Give up now.  They expect you too, anyway.  Give up now."  And I want to kick it.  And I want to scream that this is right.  That this is what I am meant to do…  But then I think, "Like you were meant to have the boys?  You’re screwing them up, too, aren’t you?  Yeah…  We all know it.  You should just walk away and save them years of therapy and heartache."  I want to stomp that voice, too.

          At some point, it would be great if I could stop feeling like everyone is always whispering about me.  I’m not saying I hear little voices, so don’t ask the men in white coats to come get me just yet.  I am just saying it would be nice to truly feel that people believe in me.  That people feel like I am good at something other than getting knocked up.  That people feel like I am a damn good mother with an incredible gift – the gift of creating a great birth for other women.  That would be nice.  Actually, that would be Heaven on Earth for me… 

          I’d settle for not feeling like a pile of rhino shit 90% of the time…  Especially where raising my kids is concerned.  And being a doula that people recommend and trust and aren’t afraid to call with questions no matter what time it is…  But whatever.

And I just realized that I type better when I am upset.  Spell check didn’t find one error…  I usually get 2-3.  Rad.  Good to know I am a perfect "upset typer."  Is that all I am good at?  I sure hope not…

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