Time to get serious

Someone said this week I seem like a very happy mammy.

They made this comment to my own mother who then admitted to me that perhaps this person would not have made such a comment having spent a couple of hours in the company of myself and my son.

It was, on my mammy's behalf, a throw-away comment. Sure, I'm always willing to tell anyone who will listen what a dodgy mother I am. But to hear it said, made me wonder.

Am I really failing at the one thing I'm trying hardest at?

Joseph is going through a tough stage at the moment and coupled with problems at work and an over-riding sense of financial doom in our homestead, both himself and I (particularly I) are reaching the end of our proverbial tethers.

It's hard to find the same enthusiasm for the early rises and late night dummy runs when it is hard enough in the first instance to switch your brain off. And believe me, my brain is on overload at the moment.

Having admitted my defeat in round one of the battle of the anti-depressants and gone back on the blighters the ill effects of getting used to them again are kicking in. The panic attacks, the paranoia, the over active imagination. All this does not make for a peaceful existance.

And then, of course, someone has replaced happy smiley Joseph with the demon child; he who wants constant and unending attention and screams for no apparant reason.

I'm feeling low. I'm feeling that I'm not cut out for this motherhood lark and I'm starting to crave a wee space were no one can find me- which is as sure a sign as any that the depression monster is fighting back.

But I'm going to keep trying because I owe it to my son. I dont the legacy of his childhood to be remembering how mummy shouted, or cried or felt inadequate. The least he deserves is happiness and love.

So ring that bell....
Time for round two.