The unbearable Melancholy of being.

I am sad. Very sad, unusually sad and increasingly sad. This sadness is all encompassing and only lifts temporarily. Very temporarily.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my girls. I love my bump, soon to be baby. I am just sad, perpetually frustrated by my endearing sorrowful state and I do lash out because even after years of dealing with varying forms of this sadness, I still cannot lighten up in some respects and just go with the flow.

Making cookies with my munsters today sapped my energy, will to live and minimal amounts of endorphins/ serotonin so much, I would prefer to just throw the cookie man, 2 bats and numerous stars into the trash and curl up in a ball. A teary eyed and hopefully un-angry ball.

At times like these, I wish there was some enforced co-parental code that came into force. Something like, acknowledgement of my now re-looming PND, the cape flouncing act of throing oneself in the line of fire and taking over. Banishing me to wherever with a cup of whatnot and a pillow. Taking charge of my wonderful munsters, who try so hard and are so smart and are dreadfully undervalued by me so much that I think they will remember me frowning far sooner than they will remember me smiling.

Surely this could be written into the co-habitational constitution? Instead, aware of my emotional and mental fragility on this monsoon- like day, dear Half has ventured out to the gym. I wouldn’t mind this so much if he chose to attend the gym at a time when he wasn’t leaving the whole family in the lurch.

I also fail to understand the Equitable division of applicable assets. I am, most definitely, primary carer, trainer, mediator, chef au Bleu, transporter, maid, librarian, curator, doctor and chauffeur/ escorter. I mope up, dettol up, change sheets literally 6 times a week, hoover daily (it is next on my list today), create edible food, have conquered the Elder resistance campaign to sweetcorn and carrots and control visual stimulation time.

Half; where to begin with Half; Half does some potty emptying, makes chilli and shepherd’s pie and reads Eldest her story at bedtime, when she’s mad at me for being a grumpy cow. (which I completely understand).

This is a list of all I have asked Half to do over the past 2 weeks. The asterisked ones have been done.

Find additional baby boxes in attic, do kitchen*, clear out rabbit hutch, hoover downstairs, hoover upstairs, put shelves in a woefully underused huge cupboard in kitchen, clean out his study, change sheets on kids’ beds, hang up laundry, trap cobwebs, lay mousetraps, get rid of ants, tidy up garden and cut out some plastic pieces I need for a homemade mobile.

Of that, as you see, the kitchen was done. Done, in that the dishwasher was unloaded and reloaded and that was it. After a short violent outburst on my part, he wiped down the table and counter, ignored the sink area, floor, full bin, general rising clutter and some extras. He put the chilli away by placing clingfilm over the frying pan. Some more of the list has been attempted, looked at, debated over and waxed lyrical about. I ask him to do these things, not necessarily because I am incapable or lazy (I shouldn’t really be carrying a 10 pound hoover up and down the stairs at 6 months along and mousetraps scare me) but because I am trying to include him in the domestic hoohah. Haha.

Half has assigned himself gym membership, a college course, a fencing membership and civil defence membership responsibilities in the last month. Apart from the last one, all cost in excess of 300euro a year and all do begin in precisely the second week of September. Bang on birthing time.

I loved being loved a few years ago. I think these days, I am here mainly for the avoidance of lone parenting, potential social stigma, the reluctance to repeat my mom’s own parenting style, the hope that a good job might pave the way for good education and future for my girls and bump and because of the small delusion that he does put us first.

Does anyone know what Warhammer is? 5 years ago I had no idea. Today there is the equivalent of 2thousand euro in little plastic men and monsters that hold weapons, that have to be painted, that have their own special brushes to be painted with and that have a bunch of spin off merchandise that is always limited edition. All that is upstairs, all in boxes and unpainted in Half’s ‘study’. Meanwhile, my daughters, aged 3 and 4 as of this Friday share a bed, do not possess rainboots and get an extortionate amount of pleasure from having a wagon of baby blocks. They do have other toys, age applicable, none of which seem very intriguing.

My vote for a long pool for the garden was vetoed because it’s always raining. My vote for a trampoline for them to burn energy was vetoed because it is always raining. My vote for garden sports stuff was vetoed because it is always raining. Skates, bikes and scooters have been vetoed because in the winter months, with a baby, I won’t be able to manage all three. (Me, not him.)

Putting my name down for a house is looking very appealing. And yet I wonder will I condemn my girls and   bump to a life of inaccessibility and deprivation. I don’t want Knacker children. I want nice, rounded, optimistic, driven, academic, athletic, creative and confident children.


the grass is always greener somewhere. 


One thought on “The unbearable Melancholy of being.

  1. I came to your blog via “when mama needs a time out” – and I just wanted you to know that as someone who not only knows what Warhammer is (I ought to, I work for the company in the US, and the father of my 15 month old is a hobbyist as well) … I totally empathize.

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