insanity

The best way to predict future behaviour is past behaviour.

Someone said that once. Not sure who. I will insert disclaimer here: it wasn’t me. But I heard it and I remember it and it’s the gosh darn truth.

Someone also said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result every time.

So, now that you have these two tidbits of stellar advice staring up at you let me tell you this about myself. I am insane. And my past behaviour indicates that I will be insane for the rest of my life. For example; and believe me, I have plenty of examples. There are six people in my house. Four of them are children. Which leaves two adults.

Me and the man.

Since there are so many children, on occasion, I feel the urge to go out. Or get out? Or break out? Escape? However you say it, you know what I mean: get some fresh air, see a movie, run some errands, stare at a brick wall.

I’m easy.

Most of the time, when I leave, I have the other adult in charge. And most of the time, when I come home, the kitchen looks like a bomb went off in it. Yes, I said “bomb went off”. It might sound cliché but it isn’t, really. It’s a fair and accurate depiction of what my kitchen looks like upon my arrival home. (And if you are a woman then I believe you know what I’m referring to. And if you don’t then you can just suck it.)

I gave up years ago asking why he didn’t lift a finger to clean the kitchen and it’s because the answers aggravate me. If you don’t want to know the answer you don’t ask the question. Our mothers taught us that, am I right?

Where is this going? Indulge me.

This summer was busy, as are most summers, but this one especially. There were a couple of times I took the four children away from the house for an extended period of time, on my own, for a holiday, leaving the man at home, alone.

Alone, at home. Just him. By himself.

Each time I went away I missed him tremendously. Thinking about him lovingly and longingly. My nerves bouncing around my gut awaiting the moment I walk through the door and fall into his warm embrace. Listening giddily as he whispers in my ear things like “I could hardly breathe while you were gone. You are my heart and soul.” And “You are so beautiful, I missed you so badly I ached inside.” And “When you take the children away from me and leave me in this great big cavernous house all alone to fend for myself, I have all kinds of time to marvel at your amazing skills and talents as the mother of my children.”

I may have an over active imagination. Or I may have spent too much time reading Outlander. Never you mind.

I drive home from these somewhat painful excursions to my love as fast as the law will allow me and come running through the door expecting my visions of grandiose love to become a reality. But instead, I get smacked in the face by my kitchen. A crime scene, so to speak. Where a mass murder of dishes/plates/bowls/utensils has occurred on the counter. The dishwasher having been spared this grotesque nightmare. Salsa moulding in the sink. The casualties are endless.

And so is my dismay.

Because this is how it always is. And past behaviour has shown me that this is how it always will be. But the fact that I envision something entirely different every single time I leave him at home with or without the children only to find that upon my return I can’t speak for hours until the fury within my soul has burned its burn goes to show that I am insane.

Insanity isn’t easy, I’ll have you know. In fact, it’s exhausting.

I am a tired woman.