It’s mid-season and I’m tired.
That point is here. Some years it comes sooner and some years it comes later, but make no mistake, it always comes. You know the one I’m talking about? The week where all the pre-game jitters have settled down to the point they are almost non-existent. The Friday that I’m not overly nervous and my anxiousness is for the game to be over, not to start.
That point when resentment has set in and boils in my blood with every dirty dish, load of laundry, whine from my kids, and blade of grass I see on my floor. That Friday when I catch myself sending that “Good Luck tonight, babe!” text later in the day and with less enthusiasm than in weeks past.
It’s the week where I care less about wearing school colors to the game and prepping all my game-time necessities, because I’m more consumed with how tired I am. It’s the Friday that by mid-day I’m consider skipping out on the game altogether with a “the kids don’t feel well” excuse. That would be easier after all. I could put the kids to bed on time, and maybe have that elusive “me time” I hear my other mom friends talk about.
I am going to pull it together – I must. I’m going to take a shower and cry.
Read the rest over on Friday Night Wives, where this was first published.