Under Pressure a.k.a. Falsies

I keep having the same dream.  Some of my teeth have fallen out.  The rest are crooked, yellow, mangled things, and I have one of two options: 1. Keep my ugly teeth or 2. Replace them with dentures.  The obvious choice is the latter.  Who wants ugly and yucked up teeth?  But in my dream, and I am telling you the truth, I choose option number one.  Why?  Why am I so afraid of upgrading to, albeit fake, new white and perfect teeth?  I wake up.  Stumble into the bathroom, check the mirror.  My teeth are still there.  Not entirely perfect but nowhere near the mess they are in my dream.  I check my crowns, still fitted perfectly.  Sigh.  Pee.  Back to bed.  I’ve still got three more hours of sleep until my baby wakes up.  I cannot afford these bad dreams, these, according to the dream experts, “anxiety” dreams.  I have a lot going on.  What mom doesn’t?  For that matter, what woman in 2010 doesn’t?  I don’t have time to get anxious.  I don’t have time to focus on my stupid teeth.  I’ve got to be up in three hours because my son wakes up whether or not I’ve had enough sleep.  My husband goes to work and all day it’s just me responsible for the life and development of a two and a half year old.  It’s just me.  And somehow, according to Carson Kressley, Oprah and Stacy and Clinton, I’ve got to look somewhat put together when I go out in public.  So that means I have to squeeze in a shower.  I have to actually care about how I look and what’s hanging in my closet.  Also, I have to fix wholesome breakfasts and try to manage my weight.  I have to try to work in thirty minutes to an hour of exercise a day so I can lose my (after two years) “baby” weight.  I have to be careful in every single decision I make.  My son has to learn how to talk, read, be social and behave.  I have to try new recipes and have a safe haven of a home in which to raise my son.  I have to organize my laundry, coupons, office, mail, checkbook, closet, learn the latest technology, be politically correct, be aware of current events, try to be an interesting person, and read thought provoking books…because if I don’t, I’m less than a whole woman.  Or so I’ve been told by, well, everybody.  On top of that, I have to do it all on six hours of sleep if I’m lucky.  And now, I can’t go back to sleep because of that stupid dream.  So now it’s five hours of sleep, maybe four.  No wonder I choose to keep my yellow Billy Bob teeth and not upgrade to falsies….I just…don’t have the time.

You ever have that feeling that you’re standing in the middle of a room full of people screaming at the top of your lungs and nobody hears you?  I feel that way a lot lately.  Sometimes, I actually scream.  I try to do this into a pillow, but unfortunately, sometimes it just comes out.  My cat’s been pooping on the floor a lot lately.  This is something he just recently started doing.  I wonder if it has anything to do with my teeth dreams?  I know that if I feel guilty passing my anxiety on to my cat, how much more guilty will I feel if I pass it onto my son? 

Before you think I’m crazy, let me tell you what’s happened to me this year.  Because I have a feeling you think I’m crazy.  I like things normal and regular, okay?  It’s just, I have this really annoying habit of being responsible and in the most graphic way I can tell you, this year has dropkicked me like Chuck Norris dropkicks outlaws in Texas. 

Hard.

On January 1^st, I watched my grandma die in the back bedroom of my mother’s house.  She was 102 and on hospice.  We had to give her medicine every hour until she passed.  It was very peaceful but it was the first time I’ve ever watched someone die that was close to me.  My sister died in a car accident when I was twelve, but I wasn’t there and I didn’t see it happen, and it was a closed casket service.  Six months after taking care of my grandma while she died, I did the same thing for my dad.  He had brain cancer.  Same exact thing, same medicine, same schedule, same house, different bedroom.  But this time it hurt more than I could’ve imagined.  It still hurts. Then, about a month after that, I decided that my mom needed a different house to live in, a bedroom that no one has died in, and I took on the task and recruited my husband to help renovate my grandma’s old house.  He recruited his dad.  About five months into the project his dad, my father in law, suffered a massive brain stem stroke that has left him in the ICU for almost two months.  Hopefully he will come home this week.  But he will require the family to help in his ongoing rehabilitation and constant care.  In about a week the house will be done.  And my mom will move into the best house she’s ever lived in.  My counselor said that people my age usually don’t take on this much responsibility.  And I said, uh huh.  Do you have any drugs for that?

Did I mention I’m a stay at home mom?

So I’ve done all of the above while trying to raise a son.  A beautiful, dark haired, blue eyed, singing all the time, smart as a tick boy.  For real, with all this going on, I am lucky every morning if I leave the house with pants on.  Does anyone else feel the pressure of having to be perfect?  Where does this come from?  I’m pretty sure most of it just comes from me, but when you see someone who looks perfect you think, gee, I wish I looked like that.  Mrs. X seems to really have her self together.  Just this year my son started going to pre-preschool (yes, it’s a thing) and when I drop him off in the morning, I see the skinniest, most perfect looking moms I’ve ever seen.  I see them driving perfect looking SUV’s and have perfect ponytails and have perfect North Face outerwear.  They are coming from or going to work out from the looks of their tight, perfectly fitting yoga pants.  I think, they must wake up at 3:30 in the freaking morning to look like this.  Freaks. 

Sorry world.  I’m not perfect.  I like to sleep all of the hours my precious son grants me and I like eating frosting out of a can.  I hate working out.  I like walking in my neighborhood but that’s about it.  And you know what?  I get my fleece at Old Navy when they mark them down to, like, five dollars.  My hair does a woo-woo thing when I try to stuff it all into a ponytail and it makes my cheeks look even fatter so I don’t even bother most of the time.  I don’t drive your car or drink your protein shake or work out at your gym.  I don’t look like you. 

Or maybe I do. 

Maybe there are other moms out there who have had to deal with a crapload of crap just like I have this past year.  Moms who are just trying to do the best they can without losing their minds or crying most of the day.  Moms who look like on the outside what they feel like on the inside, overwhelmed and unrested.  Moms who dream of their teeth falling out because they can’t find the time during the day to worry about life and so they worry about it in their dreams.  Maybe there are some sick and twisted moms who think that some of what I’ve said is funny and if so…. 

I’m in the middle of this crowded room called Blogger screaming at the top of my lungs.  Are you out there?  Do you hear me?