I'm starting to feel like a doormat. Those mud prints don't come off in the washer very easily. And I'm already buried in laundry.
Heaven forbid you try to take more than that, though, else we all go to heck in a hand basket.
My line has been fuzzy lately. And I guess that I have no one to blame but myself. I let things pile up on my plate and then freak out because, well, there is a lot on my plate. Counterproductive, I know, but that's how I roll.
The few times I've tried to gasp for help, I mostly get blank stares. I've gotten one "you can do it," and that goes a long way. But it won't last me forever.
I'm more than halfway through the craziness of May, but I know that the rest of the summer really won't be a reprieve. I have to get used to no naps and no preschool - ouch. Our weekends are filling up fast and I may not get a breather until the snow flies. And my bestie who tries to keep me from losing it will be gone, so I'll be alone in my insanity.
Unless something changes. If only I knew what. Or how.
I'm sure the secret is to find something - besides solo bathroom time - that is just for me and incorporate it into my day. But even when I do that, I think of a thousand other things I could be doing and then I'm not sure I get what I'm really supposed to out of the 8 minutes of time I carved out. Or in order to do it, I stay up past my bedtime.
So to recap, on one side of the line is doormat status, on the other is Mom time laden with guilt.
So excuse me while I go fold laundry. Clearly I have a long way to go...