Tonight I yelled at Penny. A full-out, cup-slamming yell. She was cranky because of a molar coming in. I was frustrated because she was cranky. She froze in her seat and just stared, the sweet potatoes still squeezing through her hands as she finger-painted her tray. I put some more food in front of her then went to my room and cried.
The woe-is-me lasted a few minutes as I lamented all the things I get left with. Seven days a week I'm at home with the baby. I don't have any social life to speak of. The only adult conversations I have are with the check-out people. My day consists of cleaning up one mess after another, making four different lunches with Penny only eating a bite of each and then cleaning them up. I clean up toys, I clean up dishes, I clean up laundry. And yet, ironically, most days I never get around to cleaning up myself. And so I cried. I blamed Jason, my family and all my friends who choose to live in other states and aren't here to commiserate with me. I blamed myself for not being better.
And then I remembered. I chose this. I made the decision to be a stay at home mom.
So I took a deep breath, wiped my face and went to give my daughter a big sweet potato filled hug. And apologize even though she doesn't understand why I was upset. I don't want her to ever think I don't love her. Or that I regret being at home. Because I don't. And if I had to make that same decision a million times over I would always choose her.
