Regrets

You know what sucks? My life.

God, that's whiny. This is exactly why I drop my blog when I get depressed. Depression is bo-o-o-ring. Especially coming from a woman who doesn't have to work and lives in a nice big house where it doesn't snow with two happy, healthy children and a husband who...well, anyway, a husband.

When I get in these moods, there are so many layers of regret and self-loathing that I don't know where to begin. I'll just say this: never, never, never become a stay-at-home mother. Ever. It seems like a great deal when that first baby is so little and lovable that you can't possibly imagine leaving him or her to spend eight hours a day in a beige cubicle. But after a year or two, or, in my case, almost four, you start to realize that your kids' time with the babysitter is infinitely more positive, educational, and fun than their time with you, and in the meantime you've created a black, gaping chasm in your resume that will hinder you for decades. Add to that a marriage that more and more resembles a caged death match, and suddenly you understand why so many moms in the 1950s were alcoholics.

Clearly, it is time for me to get back to work. And as soon as I can identify one or two marketable skills in myself, I will dust off my resume. In the meantime, I tend to my children, try to keep my house clean, and wonder how I ran my once-promising life into a dead-end.

Jealousy

Yesterday my cousin Liz came by to see Henry.

She looked fantastic—long, gorgeous hair, perfect yet minimal makeup, a black-and-white mini dress with matching sweater. She looks very New York. Very successful New York.

She just broke up with Paul, her Dutch boyfriend of four years. She has a fabulous Manhattan apartment and great friends. She's applying for a job at Ralph Lauren Home.

From her perspective, everything is uncertain. But I from where I sit, her future is absolutely gleaming.

And me? I am thrilled for her. Just really, really ecstatic. And so jealous I cried on and off all evening.

As free as she is, that’s how trapped I feel in my (not always, but currently) miserable marriage and my teeny-tiny cluttered little house.

Now I cry at least once a week as I do dishes in the temporary sink in our laundry room. I don’t see possibilities anymore. I only see more dishes.

So to celebrate my despondency I had three cookies and a quarter of a tub of fat-free Cool Whip. Then I was despondent and also sick to my stomach.

I adore Henry. Most days I love staying home with him. But, Christ, if I have to spend another two years as nothing more than someone's mommy, someone's wife, and both those someones' housekeeper, I'll lose it for good.