everything i do is bad

I have a thought I can't quite shake. I'll be going about my day, feeling fine, and suddenly I'll turn a corner and there it is like a white faced, screamless ghost: Everything I do is bad.

I've analyzed this thought many times, pulled it out of my head like a magician's scarf, pulling pulling pulling until POP there it all is, wrinkled and light in my hand. Seriously? EVERYTHING I do is bad? How dramatic. It's not possible for everything I do to be bad. In fact, some things I do are decidedly good: I write thank you notes, I volunteer at my daughter's school, I am profusely kind to customer service representatives. Even though I can logically refute this thought, I can't quite extract it from my heart.

So I buckle down. Today, I will make sure that everything I do is good. Today, I will turn off my phone so that I'm extra in tune with the people around me. I don't want to miss their cues for what they need. But before I turn it off, I'll check in with a few friends who I know are going through something. Today, I'll be sure to pop into my husband's office to give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. I will make the side of his bed and pick up his dirty clothes. Today, I'll swallow my exhaustion when my children squabble and I, once again, coach them through a resolution. I will wordlessly do all the invisible work--faxing immunization records from here to there, measuring and cutting shelf liners, vacuuming whatever debris the neighbor kids tossed down our vents, signing all the school forms and making sure they're turned in on time, returning the abandoned toys in my yard to their rightful owners, buying and wrapping presents for birthday parties and weddings and baby showers, organizing and keeping track of the kids' social calendars and extracurriculars, researching elderberry syrup and probiotics, purchasing elderberry syrup and probiotics. I will pick up their shoes. I will pick up their shoes again. I will pick up their shoes again. I will pick up their shoes again.

But then, when they grab their shoes, take them off, forget where they left them, and ask me where they are and if I will drop what I'm doing to help them find them, I will hit a wall, and everything-I-do-is-good will sour into everything-I-do-makes-me-resentful.

I will feel hot with it

    when the kids down the street sneak into my backyard, toss our sand toys everywhere, and leave snack wrappers and half eaten pizza slices behind

    when Fred borrows my credit card and leaves it on the counter next to my wallet instead of putting it back inside my wallet

    when the school or the coach or the church leader emails me about parental duties but not my husband

    when I see a meme of a man proposing to a woman, saying, "Would you do me the honor of taking on even more responsibilities while my life remains largely unchanged?"

    when the mess someone else made is still sitting hours days weeks after they made it in a space that I just cleaned

    when it's been awhile since anyone's told me thank you or I love you or I see you.

Everything I do is bad.

An old friend comes over. She tells me about her recent triumphs over her lifelong struggles. She takes a hesitant breath, and then: "I hope this doesn't make you feel awkward, but I have always admired you." I am stunned. She explains that growing up, she thought of me as someone who had no shame in who I was. She mentions Brene Brown and owning our stories, and she believes that I was someone who always did that. It occurs to me that maybe she believes that I am someone who still does that. The truth is I am boiled and steeped in shame, and it's been so long since I've done something that I've actually wanted to do.

After the sun sets and the kids are softly snoring in their beds, I take a walk. I stand on top of the hill that overlooks the entire valley. The sky wipes the clouds away, revealing a full moon that's practically letting off solar flares. My whole body tingles and the wind picks up and my heart is walloping outside of me and something wild inside of me foams and froths and then there's this instinct to throw back my head and howl, to run barefoot and free.

I want to, but I don't.

I shove it down, look straight ahead, walk to my front door, climb into bed.

I turn off the light with great relief. It's time to sleep, and for the next eight hours, I can't let anyone down or make any mistakes. Fred slides into bed next to me, reaches in the darkness to hold my hand. As he talks about his day, I imagine that moon passing over our house, moving onto a different hemisphere of the world. I ask Fred questions about work, about the NBA, about his outing with the kids. With each question, I feel more self conscious that maybe he can hear my internal pleas clawing through each word:

    Fred, do you like me?

    Fred, am I making any difference?

    Fred, what is something you truly appreciate about me?

    Fred, is everything I do bad?

is this thing on?

Oh, hello there. It's been a minute a few years. Let's catch up.

We recently bought a house after an agonizing process involving many decisions and factors. Those decisions and factors are irrelevant now, and if you think buying a house in a pandemic is difficult, just know that buying appliances in a pandemic is even harder.

Anyway, here we are now. We've moved a bunch since my last post, have seen a lot of changes (including another child! Have I posted about Troy on here?), and as much as I wanted to write, it just never clicked. I honestly don't know how the "mommy blogger" thing ever took flight. Who are these mommy people that have not only the time but the brain clarity to write? I write, kind of, but not how I used to. Something pops up, and I want to write about it, but I usually don't; when I do, it's a stuttering attempt that doesn't reach completion. Here's something I wrote one night at the beginning of COVID-19:

*

The governor of Utah declared a state of emergency on March 6. Close the schools. Work from home.  Maintain a six foot distance from one another. Each evening, my daughter and I walk around the lake, silently watching the sky and the placid water turn from blue to peach as the sun vanishes behind the towering mountains. As people pass by, they scoot off the path, eyeballing six feet.

"Is it because of the sickness?" my daughter asks.

She knows about it, of course. It's taken her classmates and her dance recital from her. It's why the last soccer game of the season was forfeited, why we can't go to the library when her brother naps. To explain why handwashing is important, I let her dump pepper into a melamine Disney princess bowl full of water.

"Dip your finger in," I commanded. She and her brother gleefully obeyed and laughed at how the pepper covered their fingertips. I squired soap on their fingers, and their laughter ballooned as it slimed and dripped on the floor. "Now dip those in," I said. They did, and their laughter ceased into shocked silence as the pepper flung to the sides of the bowl, away from their soapy fingers.

"Yes, it's because of the sickness," I now reply with a small smile. She nods, satisfied, and keeps walking, squeezing my hand every few paces, and I'm relieved that's the only question she has.

A couple nights later, my son wakes up crying. Too tired to console him back to sleep, we move him into our bed. He contentedly curls up into my side, sleepily asks for a snack, eventually gives up the negotiation and floats back to sleep. After a bit, he keeps kicking me, so I move into his bed next to his sister.

I'm dreaming of my best friend's wedding. We're dancing at the reception when suddenly everyone starts vibrating. The music stops, the conversation hushes, and the vibrating grows more intense. One guest turns to me and says, "Earthquake."

"Earthquake," I whisper, my eyes flinging open. The room is sloshing side to side; I can feel our townhouse bend and sway. Next to me, my daughter sits up and whimpers, and just as she opens her mouth to shout, I grab her and say urgently, "It's okay. It's okay. This is an earthquake. It's okay." Just then, the shaking swells, and I consider gathering her up and running into the doorway hall, but then the room hiccups and settles, hiccups and settles.

Stillness.

"Is it because of The Sickness?" she asks in a whisper, and it's the first time it's gone from "the sickness" to sounding like "The Sickness."

*

That's it. That's how it ends. I know, right? I didn't publish this right away because I haven't been able to edit it (or finish it, obviously). As I glance through it now, I can see how it isn't quite how I'd want it to be, and yet I've lost the steam to fix it up. For the record, I was never (never) into editing my stuff before kids.  It was more of a "slap down, vomit up, and click publish" process. Becoming a mother has brought out the perfectionist in me (another topic I've wanted to write about).

But the writing, among other things in my life, is slowly returning to me. Thanks to those who occasionally checked up or said they missed the blog. I had kind of forgotten about it, and of course it was flattering to hear that someone liked it enough to still think about it after all these years of abandonment.