Doodaddy

It’s Friday morning. I am dry-heaving into the kitchen sink while having a conversation with Boo.

“Hey, Boo, whaddaya want for breakfast?”

*heave*

“Yogurt? Pears? Berries?” Ginger ale? Pepto Bismol?

*heave*, *heave*

“Oh, Boo, Tupperware is for making music. Gentle with the cat, please!” Note the continued use of “positive” language — I can avoid saying “no” even while my tummy is in violent revolution.

*heave*, *heave*, *heave*

So why am I nauseated? Thai takeout last night? Or maybe…

• Half a pack of cookies afterwards?
• Most of a tin of peanuts beforehand?
• Seven doughnuts and a milkshake from the day before?
• All of the above, added to the weakening effects of two late-night blogging sessions?

At least I know where the headache is coming from: I can’t really stomach coffee just now, so I’m caffeine-deprived. I suppose I’ll never know exactly which disgusting overindulgence led to my pathetic attempt at emesis, but I think I know why I was overindulging in the first place: I was sort of depressed. (This may come as no surprise to those who’ve been there: half a pack of cookies + most of a tin of peanuts + seven doughnuts + milkshake = maybe needing a little food comfort?)

*heave*

*big nasty heave*

With today’s gastric distress I am reaping what I sowed all the way back on Wednesday. It was the last day of Grandma Boo’s visit, so I wanted to make the time count. I decluttered, I advised Grandma Boo, I made us lunch, I made lunch for Boo, kept everyone happy and engaged: in short, it was a busy but productive day.

Come evening, I was feelin’ good, thinking I’d taken care of everyone’s needs really well. Then Working Mom came home and told me not to give Fern oatmeal with dinner. It was a totally innocent remark — she wanted to wait until just before bedtime, because it helps little Boo sleep longer — but it made me feel judged, failing-as-a-parent, and like the hundred other things I had done right that day sort of didn’t count

So I dropped my mom off at the airport and ate seven Krispy Kremes on the way home. And the aforementioned vanilla milkshake. (I went inside the store because there’s a picture of our wedding cake on the wall. I’m not sure if that’s symbolic of something, but it feels like it might be.)

When I got home, we talked it over and I feel better (emotionally), but worse (gastrically). Still, I continue to be sensitive about my performance as a houseparent, because Thursday’s new “failure” (somehow, after all that laundry, no clean pajamas) led to the half-pound peanut orgy, topped off by the 14 chocolate-chip cookies.

*heave*

Just a little one this time. I think the Pepto’s kicking in.

Where does the confidence that I’m doing mostly the right things come from? Rationally, I think I’m doing a good job, and plenty of people seem to agree, but some days, one little critique can really kill my happy in a way it never could in the workaday world. And the worst critiques, of course, don’t come from anyone else, not even Working Mom, who is a completely supportive, appreciative partner.

They come from me.

Argh. After getting much more done on an average day than I ever did in a “normal” job, why do I let the fact that a few things slip by me cause me so much grief?