Wrong Way Around

So I homeschool, right? And I homebirthed, twice. And we homestead, sort-of. You might say I'm a homebody. You might expect that of me, you might think that's what I like best; after all, these are my lifestyle choices. But as it turns out, that's not exactly true for me. Most of my "mom friends" are stay-at-home moms. They seem content. They certainly seem happier than me. Maybe they're all on Prozac or Zoloft or whatever the latest generation of antidepressant is. Maybe I should be. But I'm not content. My kids piss me off frequently. I don't know if this is the right thing to do. And I know, beyond any doubt, that I want More out of my life. I even know some of what that looks like. But I can't see how to get there from here. My kids need me relentlessly. They are little, even the "big" one. They need, need, need, all the time. I am never "off." I hate my husband, not for doing anything especially wrong (which he sometimes does), not for being an insensitive jerk (which he sometimes is). I hate him because I resent him for not being my replacement. There is no way around this. Do I love my children? Hell fucking yes I love them, like stops-my-breath love them. Do I wish I hadn't had them? Don't be fucking stupid. But these constraints are real, and sometimes it just sucks.

After breaking my writing silence yesterday, and noticing how impressively ginormous was my writer's block, I have decided that it would probably be a good idea if I forced myself to write here daily, even if it's just two sentences of utter drivel. Hell, no one is reading this damn thing anyway, what difference does it make? I could say anything, who's going to see it? Sure, I secretly wish I could make a small living blogging, but how the hell could that happen when I go for more than a year without writing? Stupid. So I'm going to write crap into a vacuum and see how often I can manage to do it. Gah.