The time of the week that everyone wishes would never come. The return of work is looming, the frolicking of the weekend is winding down. Time to prepare packed lunches, iron shirts, get ready for the start of another week.
The feeling I get is of absolute dread. I get a hollow feeling in my chest, it makes my limbs tingle and my heart race. How the fuck am I going to manage another week? I don’t want to be around Moo all day every day. I start to think of ways that I can avoid having to do that. What would happen if I just refused to get out of bed? My husband would have to stay home to take care of her. Argh, the guilt that would bring.
I feel enormous guilt anyway. Knowing that Moo won’t have a great week either. I’ll be grumpy and snappy and lethargic. I won’t be taking her anywhere thrilling. I won’t be playing with her or capturing her imagination. Let’s hope CBeebies have an exciting schedule planned.
What if this isn’t depression; my brain malfunctioning? What if this is just genuinely how I feel about parenting? About motherhood? About Moo? Then I feel awful. Awful that I feel this way about my daughter. And awful that I’m trapped in this life that I don’t even want.
And then more guilt, just for good measure.