Things that hit you at 10pm on a Monday night

I've been rather depressed as of late. I'm a firm believer that a part of marriage is the physical expression. I have almost no self-esteem left. The baby blues sure do hit me hard. And I don't know if I'm just gross or what but anyway... In lieu of spending this entire blog in darkness and crying, I'm going to write about something else.

So there's a blog I follow, and the author is Amy Wilson. Her big thing is "When did I get like this?" I'm one of those moms who doesn't really think about what I'm doing. I love my son. Everything I do is out of love. There's not a whole lot of thinking or reflecting involved. I've basically been exhausted for the last four years. I'm running on instinct (or autopilot) here.

When I'm not on instinct, I'm in therapist mode. Evan's got a problem; how can I apply what I know about behaviorism to address it?

The other night, I was making Evan a peanut butter and jelly sandwich at 10:15pm. He'd been in bed since 8 but was refusing to sleep. His last request was a sandwich and some milk. I'm standing in the kitchen smearing the peanut butter across the bread thinking, "I don't even like this crap," and it suddenly hits me. It hit me so hard, I almost fell down.

"When did I get like this?" Seriously. When? When did potty training stop being gross and become exciting? When did I stop shopping for myself and immediately go to the toys and children's clothing aisles? When did I start searching for mommy friends? When is the last time I had a conversation with anyone in which I didn't bring up my child? When did I start checking the house before I went to bed to make sure he was a comfortable temperature and still breathing? When did I get so knowledgeable about child seats? When did I stop looking for social events for myself and start looking for my kid? When did I become a mom? Not just a biological mother, I mean a MOM. When did "Linny" disappear and become unimportant and "Evan" emerge and take center stage?

Wow. This is heavy. And I'm exhausted. Keep in mind, it's after 10pm, and I'm still making a sandwich. And Evan is calling to me from his room.

Just as I'm about to stand up and dust myself off, another freight train flies into me:

I am responsible for this little person. I feed him, bathe him, educate him, give him love and a sense of security, treat him when he's ill, comfort him when he's sad, and play with him when he wants me near. I read him bedtime stories, teach him songs and games, make sure he doesn't watch anything inappropriate on TV, schedule doctors' appointments, find childcare for him, and literally fight for his education (that's another topic entirely!).

I've always known that I'm technically responsible for him. I mean, I was there in the delivery room. The hospital has a firm "No Returns" policy. But I'm not talking about the kind of responsible that many feel towards their pets--just keep them alive and safe and you're going to jail if something bad happens to them. I'm responsible for what kind of man he turns into. It's my job to make sure he turns into a responsible, contributing member of society. I'm responsible for teaching him values and morals so that he turns into a good, respectable man. I'm in charge of teaching him how to take care of himself so that I don't do his future wife or life partner a huge disservice.

And you know what I did with these epiphanies?

I gave Evan his sandwich and kissed him good night, telling him firmly that he really needs to go to sleep now! I crawled into bed and tried to explain to my husband. He gave me a "she's crazy" look, and said something to the effect of, "Yeah. Even I know all that stuff," and keep in mind, he's the step-dad so he's had even less time to process this than me. He kissed me, and we went to sleep.

What else can you do?