There is a slight look of panic on my face as I’m trying to mimic the cups smile, hoping that the rest of me will catch on. Be happy, be positive, be happy. Sometimes it’s hard to listen to your inner voice when the frustrations of your life consume your every thought. You can try to forget about that pile of laundry that needs folded and put away. You can try to forget that the house needs a decent scrub down before your son’s birthday tomorrow but it won’t dissapear.
His birthday party is tomorrow and I’m slightly dying inside. That means my day is going to be full of funt-astic things to do. First, I’m going to work from 10-5, then I’m going to come home (now this is just an estimate) to a house that looks well lived in. My husband will have only done the bare minimum because he can’t handle two children, leaving me the rest while trying to make dinner in the process. I will fly through the list, trying to do all things at one time, resulting in me stressing out even more. I’ll be worried that I won’t get it done in time, that I’ll forget to do something and someone might see a speck of dust on the entertainment stand, heaven forbid. I will take my frustration out on my husband, telling him that he needs to help out more. He will either walk away and try to ignore me, or he will argue back, resulting in a fight that isn’t necessary.
Tomorrow, I will be freaking out. I will be wondering what I forgot to do, running around the place like a crazy person, tearing out my hair because I forgot to buy paper plates and plastic forks. Everything will be procrastinated, and we will end up having a four hour party rather than just a two hour like we planned. I will be crazy until the party ends and then I’ll be back on the crazy train trying to clean up after people. I’m exhausted just thinking about it.
I’m not going to lie. I’ve always hated parties since I was a kid. I don’t like mingling, or small talk and I hate hosting parties because I’m a perfectionist and when something doesn’t go right, I have a panic attack. I’ve been told on multiple occasions that I have a problem and I’m the first to admit that I do.
I’ll be crossing my fingers hoping that my child doesn’t get cake all over my newly washed floor.