Ironic Repetition

I’m trying to hold onto the moments of joy and find laughter in the ones I can’t let go. There’s a vague sense of dramatic irony about the life of having small children. You sense even at your low moments that an outsider would find it amusing, and that you will as well some day, but within the moment there can be a feeling of relentless frustration akin to trying to hear train announcements in a foreign language that you’re hearing only partially through static. Everything is irritating and a distraction other than the essentials you need.

Excruciating irritation, are the words that come to mind. Relentless, boredom punctuated by crisis, infinite worry and concern, and masochistic martyrdom.

There’s days where I’m smiling to convince myself to be happy and others where I’m doing so to hide my anger at the whining, crying, screaming, temper tantrums, back ache, exhaustion, and loss of my good humor. For instance, the daily trial of nap time. They fight valiantly to not sleep and I try my best to not beg them to surrender so I can and, inevitably, I end up with a toddler asleep in my bed and me awake on the couch holding her brother as he nurses and sleeps. I’m all caught up on my online documentaries and Masterpiece mysteries. For the love all that’s holy, shut up and fucking sleep.

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