Sisyphus

In Greek mythology, Sisyphus was condemned to an eternity of rolling a boulder up a mountain, only to have it roll back down again as soon it reached the cusp.  There are times when my life feels positively Sisyphean; when I feel like I have been condemned to an eternity of early risings, endless meal making, mountains of laundry and ceaseless dirty dishes.  As soon as I finish one task, it is time to start on another.  And when that task is done, it is time to get up and do it all again.

The sun rose this morning and -- like an alarm clock -- Brendan was on my side of the bed, chattering away.  As I dragged myself out of bed and saw Big Bren's dirty socks and clothes on his side of the bed, I actually muttered, "Please, God, tell me this is not all there is to life."  Needless to say, I am cranky today.

It is but 12:30 p.m., and I have already:  taken Brendan outside to play in the snow, made pancakes for breakfast, washed a sink full of dishes, sorted the laundry and washed two loads.  But, as I was finishing up with the cleaning after breakfast, Big Bren bounded into the kitchen -- hands full of dirty dishes that he thoughtfully brought downstairs from our family room, where he had been collecting them for a few days -- and asked if we were doing anything "fun" today.  If looks could kill, I'd be dragging his body from my kitchen right now.  "Geez, you complain a lot," he said, as he backed away from my killer look.

Yeah, I complain a lot.  I really have nothing to complain about.  I got up yesterday, took Brendan to karate, went grocery shopping, put the groceries away, cooked a meal that Big Bren requested (fried chicken with rice and peas and cornbread), cleaned up after the cooking (it is too much to ask anyone else in this house to wash a dish), gave Brendan a bath and got him dressed, put away the laundry that I washed and folded several days ago (it is also too much to ask anyone else in this house to put away clean laundry, too), collected dirty clothes from the floor in various rooms in the house, seasoned meat for cooking the next day, read a book with Brendan, purchased a part for my father's generator from the internet, made another meal for Brendan to eat and put him to bed.  All this, while Big Bren lay in the bed in the guest room and watched television or slept.  Then just as I got ready to relax a little, Big Bren threw himself down on the bed next to me and said, "can you scratch my head, then give me a massage?"  If looks could kill, I would've had to drag his body from my bed yesterday.

I look down at my feet and they look like claws -- that's how long it's been since I got a pedicure.  I feel like I get no breathing room, no time to do anything for me.  It is all about everyone else.  I feel like I've done something wrong; set the wrong precedent along the way.  And as I do more and more and get back less and less, I get increasingly more disgruntled.

As I am writing this, Big Bren inquires what time lunch will be ready.  If looks could kill, I'd be scraping his carcass off my computer right now....