I have some pretty unrealistic goals at the moment. Pie in the sky dreams. Things that ten years ago I never would have thought were unrealistic at all.

I have a child in year two. She has homework now. Big homework. She also has to do eye exercises for vision therapy because even though she did it in prep she got lazy in grade one and two and wouldn’t wear her glasses and here we are back at square one. So I have a dream that she’ll understand the value of money and take this seriously. She has to read with funny flippers for eye therapy and she has to write stuff down for school, so we combine the two.

My kid makes mistakes a lot while she’s writing stuff down. She makes mistakes because she doesn’t think about what she wants to write and how to write it. She just wants to get it done and get to watch tv. I frequently fantasise about taking to the tv screen with a hammer. I don’t think my husband would approve. She is 7. For now I’m thankful for erasers.

Here lies the problem though. I have this totally unrealistic expectation that the homework pencil case I lovingly and painstakingly set up for each child would actually stay a homework pencil case. You know the one? It had glue and scissors and a pencil of each colour and a few lead pencils with a sharpener and a couple of erasers. I can only dream that when I sit down to do homework with my daughter she would remember where this actually was. I can dream that when we finally find the pencil case it wouldn’t be empty. I can only dream that when I go searching for an eraser I wouldn’t be so overwhelmed by the pile of uneccesary junk that is my home and actually be able to find what I’m looking for.

I can only dream.

How do people do this stuff. My three year old is like a blender without a lid, yes, but miss 7 has her own room and plenty of storage space to store things safely if  she actually cared about me. If she had pride in her stuff. Pride in herself. If she made it a priority.

I know I’m taking it personally. Kids are skittish. Kids are selfish. Kids are messy. Kids need to play. I know all this. Really I do. Try telling my heart that though. My heart is angry.

I have spent so much time trying to teach these kids how to pack up their stuff and they JUST WON’T DO IT. I’m tired. I’m worn out. It all seems so pointless.

I was a massive Linkin Park fan in my younger years and the news of Chester’s passing yesterday really got to me. I’m angry and sad about a guy I didn’t even know. A guy who brought lyrics to life and made so much sense of the confusion that battles in people’s brains. As a depression sufferer myself, I get it, and this makes me angry.

Why the heck am I linking a messy house with the depths of despair this guy went through? Because my head is weird. Because depression sucks and I hate it. It’s so daily. I haven’t had suicidal thoughts in years. I’m so grateful for this fact but I don’t get complacent. I still battle in the little ways when I least expect it.

Today I felt like a failure because I can’t find a rubber. It’s that quick. I want to lie in bed all day and do nothing while the kids trash the house and fight with eachother because this seems the set point that we always end up back at. It doesn’t seem to matter how hard I try to change this fact. It “doesn’t even matter”, and that scares me.

After my little sulk sessions I always get back up and keep trying because I’m a stubborn idiot this is my job. It DOES matter.

It’s ok to have the thoughts. It’s ok to sing the songs. Just don’t live it. Definitely don’t die by it.

If you need help, get it.

Lifeline. 13 11 14.



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