As September rolls by, I wonder if I'll look back on this time with my children with warm memories. I hope I'll block out all the craziness that accompanies it. There never seems to be enough hours in the day. I'm always doing things to put out fires. Is this what people call the journey?? I think I'm supposed to be enjoying it, not dreading each day as I rise. Perhaps I'm a perfectionist. I feel like a perfectionist wouldn't have dog hair all over her crawling baby because she didn't get to the vacuuming that day. She would have squeezed it in. And she wouldn't have dust on her furniture, she would have gotten up early to wipe it off. So I don't think I'm a perfectionist. I feel beat down. Like some giant invisible oaf has his thumb on me and is squishing me into the earth while laughing and saying "You'll never do it all!!! Hahaha!!" I need help--emotional and physical help. Someone throw me a lifeline. I'm sinking.