You would think being married to a doctor would gain you access to some of the best drugs available. It doesn't. I can't get drugs for you, don't ask. I can't decide if I need an anti-depressant, anti-anxiety, or a mild tranquilizer. I could probably benefit from a combination of the three. Well, DrH won't write a prescription for me. He could get one of his buddies to do it, but then they would know what was wrong with me. Or worse they would try to guess! I won't let that happen. I would never tell my real doctor about it, what would she think the next time she bumped into my DrH at the hospital? So as a last resort I self-medicate and I've been known to overdose. Don't judge.
It took a while to work out the kinks, but I think I have come up with a dose and regimen that seem to produce the desired results. Two scoops, QD (that's doc talk for once daily), taken between 7 - 9 pm, unlimited refills. Side effects are mild but may produce weight gain in the lower extremities, upper extremities, mid-section, and your face. I suppose I will live. "Fat and happy" isn't just some cute phrase it is real. But then there is the self-loathing that comes to visit in the morning - I might actually need real medication to deal with that.
The problem with my choice of medication is that it feels good while I am doing it, but when it is gone I immediately feel bad. I don't like that feeling. Maybe that is why they call it a "guilty pleasure".
Why do I feel the need to indulge in ice cream every night?
Well, for starters I can hold myself together between the hours of 7 am when I am woken up by one child or the other, until it is time to make dinner. Dinner time reminds me that I haven't thought about what to make for dinner. I hate making dinner, because no matter how much time I spend in the kitchen my kids don't want to eat it and DrH usually isn't home. Then we fight about them not eating their food, or why it is taking an hour to eat a tiny plate. Then we argue about how unfair life is because they don't get to do exactly what they want to do when they want to do it. They are 7, 5, 3, and little bitti. Then we rush around trying to get ready for bed.
All the while I am thinking about what is waiting for me in the freezer as soon as I can get these little munchkins in bed. They can't get in bed fast enough. We are talking about the last minutes until the end of a 13 hour shift here, 7 days a week, 52 weeks a year! And if I hear the word "mommy" one more time I might lock them in their rooms. If it is a particularly bad night I won't even get a bowl, all I need is a spoon - a little mindless tv, and dim lights.
Some nights I don't even care that they are up chatting with each other. I've got my spoon.... now where are those earplugs.