This is that kind of week. The kind of week where I really would be taking pictures of my soul-crushingly-huge laundry pile, only I am lacking the energy to go find the camera. No, really.
The kind of week where the baby takes a nap at six in the evening, and I just *can't* bring myself to wake her, even though leaving her to sleep means she is still running up and down the living room at two o'clock in the morning.
The kind of week where it doesn't occur to me to just offer a cuddle to the overwhelmed and obnoxious four year old until she is howling and kicking out. All she needs is me, all she needs is time, all she needs is a lap to snuggle in to while she feels so out of sorts. She falls asleep in my arms, sobbing.
The kind of week where I have to rip back my knitting six times because I can't count even the simplest decreases.
The kind of week when an entire uneaten portion of milky cereal gets knocked over and I stand there ranting about WHY IS IT SO HARD TO PICK UP YOUR OWN DAMN BOWL and then burst into tears as three shocked children scramble to mop up the spill and I feel the wash of guilt.
The kind of week where I feel alone with the constant-ness of caring for children. Because it doesn't stop, and they need and I need, and just a little more sleep would make such a difference. I'm regretting my former smug-ness about her easy baby sleeping-through-the-night-ness. The ordinary, beautiful, wonderful things about this rainbow life are still there, still real, and I am still seeking out the magical moments. And yet I am tired. And so the colours look a little more grey.