I was going to write something incredibly insightful and witty. I have about three drafts' worth of insightful and witty in the can. It just isn't working out; I get to the sixth paragraph and feel defeated because none of them are worth a tinker's dam and surely not worth any of you wasting your time on.
I figured it out today (or rather, dear beleagured spouse figured it out. He's brilliant that way.)
and I'm afraid it's of the "completely whacked out of her head" variety. My friends tell me it's because I try to put 48 hours into the average 24, but that's not it. Lots of people raise children, keep a picked up house (note that I'm not going for immaculate. I'm going for being able to see carpet again), have a yard that won't lose a peck of peeved pygmies, run a newsletter, crochet, knit, spin, repair floor looms, brew beer, make soap, keep up with 52 varieties of tomato (not a typo: I really did write 52 varieties of tomato), raise citrus trees -- in the high desert, where winter temps routinely dip below citrus-killing temperatures -- and do battle with a fence-eating grape vine. Not to mention the times when I squeeze in teaching fractions and phonetics to various momentarily-still offspring.
Dear beleagured spouse points out that I just built an incubator for the duck eggs that are arriving tomorrow, so add junior electrician and all-around handyman to the list. And the fence. I need to rebuild part of the fence. We won't even mention the tomato house/duck run that I'm architeching in those spare few moments I manage to cadge now and then.
I mean, people do this all of the time and manage to do it well. What's wrong with me?
As you value your existence, do not attempt to answer that.