I wish I could tell you the exact moment. Like Pearl Harbor, “A Day that Will Live in Infamy”. But I can’t because it hasn’t just been 1 day. I should be able to tell you the exact minute that I snapped and completely lost my shit. Unfortunately I can’t. Not because it didn’t happen, but because it has happened several times so they have kind of blurred together. At first I beat myself up about it. Really made myself feel even worse, like I wasn’t up to the task of motherhood. And then I realized that even the most organized and capable person has a breaking point. And I’ve found mine, several times over. And it usually consists of a whimpering dog or 2, an inquisitive offspring who insists on 5 wardrobe changes a day and me foolishly attempting to have a 2 minute conversation with D. Now all of these variables might now seem like much, but let’s also factor in it’s towards the end of the day, and I’ve probably been picking up the same mess over and over again, and probably had to move my roommates laundry to the dryer because apparently taking care of my own grown man-child isn’t enough. Now when I worked full-time the temporary break in mommy sanity could be set off a tad easier just due to exhaustion. Now it’s a culmination of things, all gathering force throughout the day like a hurricane building up its strength. And the snap is spectacular, something akin the Mount St Helen’s erupting in ’81. My child looks at me as though I am the monster hiding in the closet. My husband meekly offers me time to myself, or a pedicure. The sad thing is I usually don’t take advantage of those offers because I feel so guilty temporarily going bat shit crazy. I just need for someone else to answer Bean’s calls and questions. I need someone else to go upstairs to find the shirt she absolutely must wear, but can’t find because it’s hiding underneath 1 other shirt and god forbid she move something. I need someone else to load the dishwasher, because I have been doing it all day. I need someone else to walk the dogs because, even though I adore them, some days they have the timing of a 3 year old, when it comes to walks. They let me sit down and get comfortable and then they whimper the unmistakable whine that can only be translated into “walk me now, or I’m peeing on your freshly shampooed carpet.” So I get up, for the 57th time that particular day and walk them, around the block, twice because they are assholes. They are mine and I love them but they are assholes. And then I get in the pickup line at school, wait patiently with all the other moms, for the next wave of attack. The questions. The never ending questions. “Why this?” “What’s that?” “How are babies made?” etc. Questions to which you know the answers. Questions to which you don’t have answers. Questions that make you wonder what exactly they are teaching in kindergarten these days. So its days like these that I can feel the snap brewing. It starts small, and before I realize it, I am a raving lunatic feared my family. Every response is short and concise. Every action is deliberate and spiteful. On most days, I exercise exquisite control over my sarcasm, but on these fateful days it pours from my mouth like hot lava, scorching whoever is close enough. And really good days I even end up in tears while I’m folding someone else’s laundry, cursing every pair of polka dot leggings. I sob silently, in the privacy of a room that D won’t come in. Because just like I tell Bean, sometimes you just have to cry it out. It’s those days that I call my capabilities into question. I sit and dwell on my annoyance, where it came from, what caused it, what exacerbated it. And usually the answer is always the same. Something went wrong in the script I had planned for the day. D offered to drive Bean to school and they left 10 minutes late because D was being D. I walked the dogs for 30 minutes and then as soon they came in the little one shit on the floor. I browned the ground turkey for dinner and THEN found out I didn’t have taco seasoning of any kind. I wanted to ask D how his day was and Bean kept interrupting. Every mom has a script for how she expects the day to progress. And once a wrench is thrown into the works, her coping skills come in to play. And if I’m close to snapping, chances are my coping skills have been exhausted and I can’t even handle a mosquito buzzing around my ear, let alone 2 humans and 2 dogs pulling at me, needing me to do things for them, when what I really want is to have a selfish moment and have those entities do things for me. I want one of the dogs to make me a cocktail. I want Bean to tell ME why Pluto isn’t a planet anymore. I want people & canines alike to leave me alone in solitude for longer than it takes me to use the bathroom. Sometimes I pretend I’m pooping just so I can have a few extra minutes to myself, but the thin barrier of a door between myself and reality is already crumbling in the form Bean knocking on the door asking me why flamingos have such long necks.