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Yesterday was probably the worst mental health day I've had in a long, long time. One benefit to being on Prozac is that it has helped me control my temper. Oh, yeah, in case you didn't know, I have a tendency to freak out once in a while when I feel hurt, ignored, shamed, etc. I really crave peace and harmony, but when I feel slighted, especially by people I love, I crumble. Rarely do I ever freak out in public or at strangers.

Yesterday started off a relatively good day. I accomplished my morning and afternoon fairly easily, except not making time to unload the dishwasher in the morning (woe is me). After a pleasant dog walk and exchange with my friend Margo, I went to Target to run some errands. Which was fine enough, except I was wearing a ratty old sweatshirt with some massive tears and a few errant stains on the sleeves. This sweatshirt is about 40 years old, and belonged to my dad in Junior High. I love it, but it does not scream "put together mother". I do a good enough job of looking like a mess when my clothes are clean and neat, thank you very much. So, as I was driving away from Target my friendly iPhone rang out it's train whistle sound, reminding me that tomorrow Dave has a soccer game at 9:30 a.m. and oh, yeah, I have snack duty! WTF, I just left Target, damnit! Gar ... I could have easily turned and re parked and returned to the store. However, my incredibly regular son informed me he needed to use the facilities. Wonderful. For those of you in the know, juggling a toddler, harboring your full basket of carefully selected goods and aiding a 4 year-old to a cramped bathroom stall (with your 18 month-old) is a circus act. I had begged him to wait until we got home. So, there we were, headed for home to commence Operation Bathroom. I decided I would hit the Safeway in Des Moines on my way to pick up my oldest at my mom's greenhouse, instead of driving the extra couple miles to Fred Meyer, where I normally shop. This is about 4:00 p.m. when everyone is scrambling to get their snacks, dinner, beer for the long-awaited Friday night. I am laboring up and down the aisles looking for the perfect snack that is frickin' peanut-allergy friendly, and healthy. I stock up on 10 oranges, get stuck behind some guy yelling at his wife to check the price of the whole chickens, make my way to the bread aisle because I decided to F the healthy choice and buy packs of mini donuts. I pile 20 in my cart. I'm tired of being the lame mom who brings the Organic Granola Bars from Trader Joe's, I decide. Then, who wants juice with donuts? Milk, I say! No dice in the refrigerated section for individual servings of milk. A-ha, the juice aisle has milk in juice boxes. I stock up on 18 of those. Hey, it's Friday, let's have some beers. Backtrack to the beer aisle, where I pick up a 12-pack of Newcastle (hey, it was on sale). Meanwhile, David texts me to not forget halftime. Halftime, I think. What? Oh, he must want snacks for the beer while dinner is cooking. *sigh* I'm really trying to lose weight, but I do have homemade salsa in the fridge, and, oh, Hey, the Juanita chips are on sale, too. Cool. When I text him back to see if chips are OK, he writes, Don't we usually have fruit at halftime. Huh? For Soccer, he writes back. Ohhhhhhh! Right, yeah. Got the oranges already. I'm in line, so I'm keepin' the chips ... for, you know, later, or whatever. Yeah. Anywho, I'm the "express lanes" for a minute when I am told to move down to the cash register on the opposite end, because their scale isn't operating, and I have oranges that need to be weighed. At this point, the lines are so long at all the registers, they reach the beginning of the aisles and I get stuck behind a bunch of people with overloaded carts. As I try to follow the cashier to the register 5 miles away, a few other tag-alongs trail behind her, in front of me. Oh, fuck that. So, I choose an altogether different cash register. As I'm waiting in that line, I observe a tall, lean, well-dressed woman with beautiful straight dark hair, casually sipping her venti Starbucks whateverthefuck drink. Over the white noise of grocery store chatter I hear something like, "I'm going to have to move you, this one isn't working." Huh? What? Oh, it must be specific to Brunette Barbie, surely I won't have to move again. "It's OK, not your fault," I hear Ms. Svelte say, with her nose turned up in he air, as she gathers her neat stack of goods and trollops off behind the cashier, who is yelling at me to move down to the next register, as I stand there, dumbfounded. Oh, hell no! I still stand there, he comes back. "This machine is broken, go ahead and move down to the next register." In a voice that comes from the lowest depths of my soul I say loudly, clearly, and steadily, "You better get me to a cashier that can check me out right now. This is the second time I've been asked to move and I am not waiting in another line!" He stutters, telling me to give him just a minute. He fumbles with the machine and then disappears. I look behind me, and the mass of people that used to be there have disappeared. I'm heated, I'm angry, my heart is beating out of my chest. I am hungry, I am crampy, my throat is dry, Roman is asking me what's going on, Nora is trying to escape from the grocery cart. I am losing it. I give Roman his coat, haul Nora out and storm out of the store, leaving my cart with all the snack stuff sitting in the abandoned check-out line. I'm near tears. I just wanted to get the god damn snacks and be done for the day. I just wanted to be done. for. the. day. Now, I have to find the time to buy snack stuff before we need to leave for a 9:30 a.m. game. I am feeling like a toddler about to have the biggest meltdown. I start to breathe, pushing the air out between my clenched jaw. I get to my mom's and collapse in her wicker chair in the corner of her office. After chatting for a minute, I slowly drag myself up and load the children in the car. I make the 15 minute drive home that feels like I am a tug boat, hauling a huge tanker. I get the kids out of the car, stumble into the house and out of my shoes and coat, throw any bags I managed to grab out of the car on to the floor, and collapse on the couch, cover myself with a blanket, and turn on "Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives". The sun is streaming through a patch of clouds, right onto my face, and Dave asks me, "Mom, you want some tea?" *big sigh* He's a sweet, caring boy. Roman cuddles up next to me, Nora crawls all over me, Dave brings me tea and starts playing with his Legos on the couch. I am OK. David calls, he is getting the snacks (and the beer) and he will make pizza when he gets home. *huge sigh* I am OK. I don't really leave the couch the rest of the night. We eat the homemade pizza my husband made, which is delicious, and watch Madagascar 3. We laugh and we snuggle, and we are all OK.

I love home. If I could figure out a way to not leave my house and still live a fulfilling life, I would. Finding the energy to run errands, load kids in an out of a car that is way too small for my family, reading off lists of carefully thought out items that correlate with the stack of coupons in my wallet, struggling with Roman who wants to show me for the fifth time the birthday card with the swearing squirrel at Target, Nora trying to escape from the belt in the cart so she can run rampant through the store - it is exhausting. I am exhausted. Come to me, world. I wish it was like that. I make the moves, I put forth the effort to get the job done. Some days I take it in stride, I don't collapse in a fit, and I am patient. Other days, when the elements line up just right (meaning in such a way that everything goes wrong), I want to run and hide away. Home is where I bunker down. It's where I can corral all the things I love. Home is where the world's teeth can't sink into me. Home is where I heal. *sigh*