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Yesterday I put a call out on Facebook.

“Who can take my kids for the day on sat??? I thought I was gonna make it till the end of this never ending summer school break (it’s not a f$&king holiday btw) but the wheels are coming off. All offers considered. I will pay. I will beg. I will hide in my wardrobe if need be.”

We aren’t in lockdown and my kids can go back to school in a few days. I am lucky.

But I am also at breaking point.

I feel lost. Or rather, that I have lost myself. I wander around the house picking up after the others that live here. Empty toilet rolls that have been placed next to the bin instead of in it. Clothes that have been shed next to the hamper instead of in it.

I don’t understand.

But then I kind of do. I do too much for them. What’s that saying? You are making a rod for your own back? Hmmm. Mostly I’m just picking my battles. World War 3 or another ounce of my precious energy. I choose the latter most of the time.

This year will be different I say. They will be more independent, more grateful, and take on more responsibility around the house.

There I said it.

It’s dusk till dawn with the 7-year-old. We begin and end the day together. The anxiety she has inherited from me prevents her from sleeping well. We just did two nights of her going to sleep ‘by herself’. This meant me reading her a chapter, tickling her back, cuddling for 5 minutes, and then coming back every 5-10 minutes after. The routine started at 8.30pm and she finally drifted off around 10pm. I am exhausted (mentally and emotionally) and watch an episode of Cold Case to put myself to sleep.

But I am lucky. She usually sleeps through the night.

I felt seen and heard by my gay BFF the other day. He recently became a sperm donor and has a lovely relationship with his son and the mum. They had just visited a two-week visit. He gets it. The non-stoppness of it. The dusk till dawn.

But him getting it felt like a ‘moment’.

I’m grateful for the non-traditional relationship he has with his child. It means I can go have sci-fi sleepovers at his house, and gorge on chocolate – without having to share it.

I am a parent. So yes, I signed up, and of course I love them, blah de blah. I just didn’t sign up to be a maid, mind reader, or mediator. I know fighting between siblings is inevitable but I cannot do it anymore. I can’t listen to it. I can’t decide who hit who first. FFS, I cannot drive safely while they nitpick at each other.

And I’m done being a rubbish bin. Take the wrapper off the iceblock, pass it to me? Nope. I don’t even think I look like a rubbish bin.

I feel as though it’s a constant standoff between the life I imagined I would have as a parent and my anxiety.

I’m sure you can guess which one usually wins.

The drugs – citalopram as a level-er, oxazepam for the blips – help. A little. It’s day 7 of no alcohol. And I know that will help too. Not yet though. I’d still prefer to drink my way (responsibly of course) through dinner, bath and bedtime.

It’s nearly 10am and I should clean up from breakfast, keep a clean and crisp bench like a good little minimalist. Pffft.

I could tackle the mountain of washing that needs folding or hanging out. I could start cleaning the grubby windows. And then there’s all the plants that need repotting. Because I thought that being plant parent would be easier. At least they don’t fight with each other.

I’m not sure what the point of all this rambling is. I mean obviously I’m lucky right? I only have 2 kids to deal with. Some have double or more. I’m not really parenting in a pandemic like most of the rest of the world. (Thank God for Jacinda!)

We have a stable income and can afford things like Hello Fresh so my frazzled brain doesn’t have to make a meal list every week. Blessed some might say.

Yesterday I shipped my kids off to playdates. One incredible mama had my 7-year-old for 7 hours! I was able to do the stationary pick up and shop for the new fridge by myself. Pure bliss. Almost like self-care (insert eye roll). But really, it was good. Some of the holes in my empty and dry cup have been patched.

So I’m incredibly thankful.

I couldn’t do life without the village that comes around me. I think that’s the point. It takes a village. We cannot and will not raise our kids by ourselves. My village people look like the neighbour, who graciously lets my youngest visit. Often. And my parents who take them for the night, despite my Dad recovering from a knee replacement. The other mums who hear my primal call – ‘I just can’t take it for one more second’ and whisk them away like fairy godmothers.

My close friend who listens without judgement as I lament my first world problems. She gently encourages me to start the long slow process of removing the rod out of my back. I love her for it. It’s been hurting.

I love my village. I can’t live without them.I am in the deep dark thick of parenting and my village is my light.

I feel better now that I’ve vomited all of this up. The washing still waits. But the 7-year-old crushed her own weetbix and poured her own milk.

(Apologies to those that came here for the Simple, Slow, and Lovely. Obviously this isn’t what you signed up for. I’ll get right on that – after the washing).