Well, not quite. I haven't really had any valium or vodka laden coffee today - YET - but I'm still ready. It's 10:30, and I've already gotten so much done: Shopped for dried fruit (the kids each needed some to bring to school), packed decent lunches, folded three loads of laundry, put away the clean dishes, got everyone dressed and out the door and where they belong, sent out two invoices for our home-based business, did 1 hours worth of work on the big design project I have due to the printer on Monday, paid a couple of bills, ate breakfast (which, sadly, I have to put on my list of accomplishments, because I forget to do this too frequently), responded to a flurry of emails, tidied up my kitchen, living room, and dining room so I wouldn't feel cramped while I am working and could therefore let the creative juices floooooooooooooooow, and started on another design project I have.
It's been a good morning so far.
But here's my problem. As I said to Rick the other evening: "I can be a good mother. I just can't sustain it for the whole day." I was referring to what I call the 4:30 phenomenon. At 4:30, I tank. I can have a perfectly fine day until about 4:15, and then I just lose all motivation to keep going or even to stop and enjoy some time that isn't related to GETTING THINGS DONE.
Each day, 4:30 looms ominously in front of me; I know that when it rolls around, I will have to redouble my efforts to fight the funk. I will need to summon all of my womanly powers to continue to comfort the afflicted (apply bandaids), foster peace and understanding (break-up fights), aid the suffering (prevent the boys from tormenting the girls), distribute goods (feed them), and be the peace I wish to see in the world (somehow keep from screaming.)
There is a scene in Finding Nemo, where Darla is tapping on the aquarium glass and Peach the star fish is trying desperately to hold on to the glass while frantically repeating: "Find a happy place! Find a happy place!" That's me, every afternoon at about 4:30. And yes, that means that my kids are, collectively, the dreaded Darla, tapping on my brain with each of their 50 fingers, drumming all of their little needs and wants and stories and questions and fights into my consciousness.
And ooh, boy, can that happy place be hard to find.
Time to start spiking my afternoon coffee. What's your vote: Vodka? or Valium?