I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Overwhelmed, out of time, in the midst of a messy house, with that fucking 164.5 on the scale AGAIN, can’t find my bra so the girls are sagging to the new post pregnancy location of my navel, cute shirts from Old Navy already feel like cheap shit after being washed a few times, yoga pants – again -, baby crying and not going down for nap, Scout leaving to go home for an overnighter, me dropping my basket.

I *refused* to say the words “I don’t want you to go.” I wanted to say them. But I would not. Three times he said he was staying, three times I said he was going.

Deep down I’m a little pissed he’s going. It’s money I’d rather spend on stuff for the house to make my world easier (selfish). It’s another 36 hours where I’m on my own with baby (selfish). I still don’t know anyone out here well enough to have them help me today.

I hate being weak like this. I feel like he goes to work and makes the money and I stay home and raise the baby and keep the house. Only ….. I feel like shit every time he does anything about the house, because it’s not like I can go to his job and help him out on a hard day.

I feel like I can’t catch my breath. Like in 9th grade gym when we had to run the mile. I knew I couldn’t do it, so I would alternate sprinting with walking (long before I knew the phrase “interval training”). I would sprint a leg and walk a leg to catch my breath. But before I’d caught my breath it would be time to sprint again. Each leg I was a little more out of breath and it hurt a little more. By the end of the mile I was still the last one (unless you count the girl gasping near me, “I need a cigarette”), having been lapped by the “good” runners, and passed by everyone else.

I feel like that today every day.