You really don't want to read this - trust me.

Unless you are my children and I am presenting this entire blog to you on the eve of your high school graduation, or your wedding day, or the day your own child is born, or whatever day I decide to present you with your my memories, in which case you will read this.  You'll read it and you'll like it.

Life has just been a big ole' fat mess lately and the thought of blogging about it feels like having to walk to school uphill, in the snow, with no shoes.  And no coffee.

But alas, I press on.

The mess is this stuff:
1.  Owning more homes than we need.
2.  Graduate school
3.  The adorable house on Meadow Lane that lots of people want to buy but none of those people actually do.
4.  Mia's play
5.  That darned second mortgage
6.  A child who hasn't slept the night in 34 days.
7.  Realizing that Santa ain't coming to town if we still own the adorable house on Meadow Lane
8.  Making myself sick on dry roasted peanuts and candy corn.  I am angry at the entire Universe for not forcing me to try this most glorious of combinations sooner.  I'm equally angry at the Universe for the sheer fact that this combination exists thus forcing me to wear only elastic waisted pants.
9.  And last but certainly not least is this guilt thing.
Feeling so incredibly guilty about the new house, and the old house, and grad school, and not cooking as much, and forgetting to pack my kid a healthy snack on "healthy snack day," and all the other things I have bombed lately.

And I'm being for real when I say that guilt usually isn't my thing.  I'm always telling my friends things like "give yourself a break" and "your kids are just fine" and "don't buy into the domestic Mommy bliss dream, that whole dream was invented by a man who hated women."
These are my mantras.

Yet, the guilt.  Oh the heavy, burdensome guilt is killing me.

Some seasons are just like this.  I'm not particularly surprised or alarmed by it.  I am confident that I will see it through to the other side.

And I'll look at Andy one day and say, "Remember that time our house wouldn't sell and we were so freaked out and Mia woke up every night because her "room was too creaky", and I decided to go back to school, and Mia was in OZ, and I ate my weight in candy corn and peanuts?"

And he'll crane his head around mine so he can see the TV and he'll casually say, "Yah.  Are we done here, Babe, this is a close game."

And that's when I'll know things are back to normal.

But until then...

bottoms up.