The morning’s first unfortunate caller gets it smack in the ear without warning when a benign enough question – how are you? – is answered honestly, for a change:

HORRIBLE! I’m getting my tubes tied because I SUCK.

I’m not cut out for this. When he cries I want to cover my ears, get in a car and drive away. I want to be alone in a dark room for a month. He makes himself puke now for the rewards of escalation – company, activity, the boredom antidote of bleary-eyed parental bickering. And then he fights and flails and I lose it. I can't stay calm. I'm all buttons. I resent him for it, making me World’s Worst Mother.

I don’t want to be selfless anymore. I want my old tits back. I don't want to be needed by anyone. I want to sleep. I’m at the end of my rope, and he’s pushing me beyond it.

I wasn’t going to post this. But there’s nothing more indulgent and untruthful than constant fair weather.

I’m completely demoralized. I feel like every other mother is better at this than I am. Especially those with more than one, who must be made of tougher stock altogether.

He runs along the beach, shovel in one hand, bucket in the other, yelling NOOO! Nooo! No! No! at the waves, high on uncut self-determination. It would usually make me smile. Not today.