Talking to myself

I admit it. I talk to myself. Aloud. Often.

Sure, the kids can listen in - they are my most frequent companions - but, as is common, they have tuned out the sound of my voice. It's remarkable, really.

But today, I'm talking to myself. Aloud. On the world wide web.

I let you in on these little conversations because I'm too chicken to pick up the phone and tell just one person that I feel sorry for myself today.

There.

I said it.

Come on over to the Pity Party.

Today is the last MOPS of the year. It starts in 15 minutes. And I'm at home in my pjs surrounded by munchkins in their pjs and the mess they create.

I feel guilty for complaining (and crying) because I'm home for a darn good reason: Kyle has a job.

What does that have to do with it? 

We haven't been able to fix the car - the shame of the neighborhood - that has been on blocks since a selectively forgotten time in 2009.

You know how it is: the stars of time AND money rarely align.

So he has the family car - a situation that neither one of us is particularly fond of - to go to work and provide for our family, and I'm home without a car.

I'm sans transportation in a society where the love affair with our cars is 100+ years old. I've had a car since I was 16. I hardly remember life before motorized independence. Well, the one exception is my 6 month stint in Central Asia, but that wasn't this restrictive.  In Kyrgyzstan, any car with an open seat - or lap - was a taxi for hire and buses came every half hour - give or take two hours.  There is no public transit in my bustling metropolis of 3,500 people.  Even if there was... 5 kids on a bus?  Um. No.

I keep reminding myself that it's Date Night, but each sibling scuffle and kidlet cry is like lemon juice in the papercut of disappointment.  Get me out of this house.  And it's hard to keep perspective.  They need to get out too so cabin fever is in full effect AND it's dreary outside.  See... this is one heck of a Pity Party.

It's not like I don't have enough to do to distract and keep me busy for the next two decades, but I don't want to do more laundry, wash more dishes, wipe more noses, organize more drawers, and diaper more bottoms.  

I want to pout. 

I like to do what I'm good at.

I'm a skilled pouter.

At some point, my whining will stop, and I'll make the best of the day because this too shall pass.  And I have so much to be grateful for... like a good reason to repaint my toe nails - Date Night!