Friday, August 14, 2015

Bat Shit Crazy

Sometimes I nut up and act crazy and run around the house sneaking toys out to the recycle bin when no one is watching.  

Big Al, my OB, recently put me on birth control pills. For the first time in over 6 years I realized I am completely capable of bat shit crazy. 

I go to therapy every week. Seasons are hard y'all.  I have recruited several of my friends.  I can't decide if I am surrounded by crazy people or if I am making everyone around me crazy.   
Every week I have to talk about how I feel. Why I feel. What I feel. 

I have to look at this feelings poster and pick my feel. 
I recently asked D if she would take my picture and post it up there. Right next to "smug". D is my therapist. My sweet, sweet therapist who was hand picked straight by Jesus to be my champion during this season. Under my mugshot, snapshot, I asked her to write: Bat Shit Crazy.

Cause that's an emotion too. A feel. 

So about three weeks after Big Al put me on the pill, Coop and Finn were playing in their ginormous Lightening McQueen pop up tent. Only they weren't playing. They were acting the fool. Hoodlums all up in the playroom. Pop up tent gangsters. They would get a running start (halfway across the family room), run full speed AT the tent, man handle it, plow over it, and throw themselves into the furniture. Mama don't play hoodlum. 

So I went a little crazy.

First I winky face reminded them that we are Davises and we don't go gangster on the pop up tent. When that didn't work after three, no four tries, I nutted straight up. I went all Poltergeist on their little people selves. I wrestled the tent to the ground, karate chopped it into pieces and took it straight out to the garbage. 

Ok I didn't take it out to the garbage. Yet. But I'm going to. As soon as no one is looking. 

Having too much stuff is problematic. It makes my skin crawl and overwhelms my soul. Less is more. Less is more. 

Right after I went Poltergeist on the pop up tent, I threw my phone across the foyer in a fit of rage because auto correct kept changing the word "grace" to "grease" when I was texting my mama about my lack of it.

The struggle is real. Because sometimes you have to karate chop a pop up tent. Because I am beyond blessed to be able to be at home with my most important little people and wouldn't trade if for anything in all the whole wide world. Because sometimes I just want to face-plant on the floor and not get up from there til next week. Because it's hard. And I give the kids too many GMOs. And I didn't use cloth diapers. Or breastfeed. And I don't let Coop and Finn play with sidewalk chalk because it's chalky and dirty and gives me the eebyjibbies. Because I fail daily. 

But also because "I can do this". And you can too. This is for you warrior mamas. Bat shit crazy warrior mamas. March on.