The Monster Under My Bed

Yellow walls. Pink and purple and yellow bedspread.  White dressers covered with Lisa Frank stickers.  If one is fun, why not two hundred?  My red haired cabbage patch doll, Tina sitting with my blankie on my pillow. A whole corner full of bears from my teddy bear themed birthday party when I was 9.  But no monsters.  When I was little I never thought there was a monster under my bed.  I didn't buy into it.  It couldn't fit in there with all my clothes/toys/junk shoved under there in the guise of cleaning my bedroom.

But there is a monster I live with now. No, no. Not my husband.  He's anything but a monster. This one is sinister and tricky and mean. She bullies me day in, day out, no matter what I do.  She nags.  In the worst way.  Nothing is good enough for her.  I certainly am not- and she has no qualms about telling me exactly what I'm doing wrong (everything).

Anytime I put the baby (toddler now really) down for a nap I hear her.
"Why can't you be good enough to play with him? At the very least find a spot in your house where he can play and not get hurt."
"It's not my fault," I argue back, "He gets into EVERYTHING no matter what I do."
"Yeah, but if you were a better mom, he'd be a better behaved child."

When the kids tell me, yet again, that they are hungry despite eating a meal not an hour and a half ago she barges in.
"If you'd fed them more a nutritious meal with lots of choices they wouldn't be grumpy about the food you made that they didn't like and wouldn't eat and then they wouldn't be hungry now."
"And if I had a chef they could have whatever they want. As it is I have limited resources and limited patience for cooking.  They should just eat what I make them if they are really hungry.  They've never truly known what it is to starve."
"But you should buy more of the foods they like- or go more out of your way to create fun meals and disguise the things they don't like."

When I was a kid my mom suffered from depression.  I would find her on her bed or in her room crying again.  She told me it wasn't anything I did, she was just sad.  I wanted to help her.  I wanted her to help me.  I knew one thing for sure.  I did NOT want to end up like her.  She doesn't struggle with depression anymore.  Her life is stable but she also doesn't have kids to take care of day in and day out.  My littlest sister is 21.  Now I'm in Mom's shoes from twenty years ago and I'm scared.  I struggle to get out of bed- but I do it.  I don't want to be like she was.  I feed my children because that is my responsibility.  They are not gourmet.  They are not cute.  But no one in our home goes hungry.  I don't want to ask for help because that is admitting I have a problem and even if I do- I'll find a way out.

That's what I tell myself anyway.
Meanwhile the monster tells me, "You're worthless. Give up.  They'd be better with a numb drugged up Mom on Prozac or Celexa than the angry/sad mom they have now."

Monsters are real.  I didn't realize they don't haunt children- they wait to prey on the grownups.