This past weekend I had a complete momE break down. For some reason I just lost it. If I’m being fair it was probably because I am PMS’n but I hate to use that as an excuse. I felt the way I felt and it was all valid. The yelling about it and stomping off probably wasn’t the most mature way to deal with it. And that alone I’ll blame on the PMS.

This weekend I created Cru’s birthday photoshoot. Made a balloon garland and by mouth blew up 100 balloons. Then not to mention trying to keep 100 balloons away from a two year old is a complete disaster. Once I got it all hung up and put away I felt so accomplished. It came out way better than I could have imagined. The shoot went decent. I get a little high strung when I have to deliver something good or I have a way that I want it to turn out in my head and it goes left. Long story short there ended up being popcorn everywhere. 

Corey was a huge help and swept up all the popcorn after completely ruining the shoot by not looking at the camera and chewing on movie snacks the entire time. But I figured, at least he is cleaning up. Once that was swept it was like everything shifted. The chore that Chubbs was told to complete earlier that day….never got done. He literally just stood there moving his hands around the boxes pretending to do it, but actually did nothing. Cru was on high energy and popped one of the balloons that I was actually trying to save for his party and Corey sat back on the couch and kicked up his feet. 

It was then that I looked around and noticed how all that work I did, wasn’t going to get cleaned up unless I did it. I could have left it there to see who would think to take it down or who would pop the balloons. Or shoot, who would even take it out with the trash that next morning. But I knew nobody would. I knew if it was up to them it would become a formal piece in our living room. But that wasn’t what sent me over the edge. It was the question all mothers hate to hear right after a long day or doing nothing for yourself and everything for everyone else. It was the “WHAT’S FOR DINNER?” question. As soon as Camden opened his mouth to ask me that, I lost it. For one I knew that an inevitable eye roll or groan would follow like it does every night. I knew that no matter what I said someone wouldn’t want to eat what I slaved to cook. 

So what would a mom who spent two hours blowing up balloons, an entire day making a Sunday dinner, and her entire young adult life cleaning up after children do? Well, she would scream “I am not your maid” and slam some food on three plates and stomp up the stairs and shut the door to her room. Yes, that’s what this mom did. I was pissed. I was heated. I was so annoyed. So I went to bed and woke up the next day and took a me day! 

I mean I felt like I deserved it, don’t you?

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