I keep feeling like I wish I were Better. A better mom, wife, housekeeper, organizer, friend – you name it.

I look at the moms with seemingly infinite patience, and marvel. How do they NOT raise their voice?

I look at the moms who take their kids on fun outings and wonder at how well their kids behave and how calm and collected they all are. Me? I dread taking both my kids to the store at the same time because it’s a study in stress. It’s embarrassing, to boot. Taking them someplace like this? Forget it.

How do they keep them in line? Doing their chores without threats? Homework without tears? How?

I look at the woman with roughly the same circumstances as me with an immaculately clean and organized house, and wonder, “How does she do that without losing her mind?” SubHub calls our kids “more spirited than others.” Is that it? It’s them, not me, right?

I have always been a person who turns inward to try to understand who I am and what I’m made of. What I am and made of at this exact moment is chaos. Scattered. I long to be unscattered.

I’ve discussed my battles with depression here before, and this is something different. I know when my brain declares war. This is a desire to morph into a person I simply may not be. I’m a good and loving mother.  I’m just not an organized mother. I’m a caring wife and friend. I’m just not an organized wife and friend. I find the tension between my desire to be orderly and my ability to do so paralyzing.

I want very much to do better, be better, and yet I get in my own way. Every day. I long to be the person who fills up the shadow I cast. But I can’t seem to unbury myself from the pile of laundry and the screaming kids, and the crumbs on the floor. Tunnel vision has become a survival tool.

Is it because I can’t help but see the whole pile instead of just the manageable sections?

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