A to Zzzzzzzzzzzzz

Whenever I sit down to metaphorically put pen to paper, the first thought that springs to mind is "I'm tired". But I always seem to push that aside and focus on things less mundane than that to express per my keyboard.

But, I just have to say it. Just once, and then, maybe, it will be better. 

I am tired. Dead tired.

...

And I'm tired of being tired.

...

Nup. It makes no difference. Still tired.

I wake up tired. I plod through my day tired. I answer my mail tired. I make sarmies tired. I drive tired. (Yip, that's me swerving just ahead of you!) I get to the end of the day and fall upon my bed, you guessed it, tired.

For the longest time (Ok, 6 years and counting. Pretty much since I became pregnant for the first time), anytime someone has asked me how I am, I have had to fight the urge to reply, honestly, "I'm tired."

It's not for lack of sleep. I get my 8 hours as often as the next mother. It's just that I wake up tired. Sure, I went through those torturous nights with new babies, colic, and three-hourly feeding schedules, but surely I should be recovered by now?

It's not my iron. Last blood test showed it slightly low, so I swallow a tablet whenever I remember. But I'm still tired.

I'm not pregnant, before you get all diagnostic on me. That option was taken care of a long time ago.

It could be insufficient aerobic activity. Yes, I am a gym deserter. And one of the reasons for that is that gym made me feel tired. Go figure, right?

It could be my cipralex. So I changed the time of day I was taken that little happy pill. It didn't seem to help much. Over the last 2 months I have halved my dose, hoping that that would help too, but no luck. I'm still tired.

It's really not my kids. They are generally a dream to care for. Sure there's the whining and the bickering that can get to unmanageable levels, at times, but for the most part, they are easy kids and a pleasure to have around.

And while we're on family, it is definitely not the mother of the year either. That poor guy has had so little of me due to my flailing energy-levels, that he doesn't even try push his luck for more than dinner and clean underwear. Now don't you feel all sorry for the bloke. It's not like he don't get none. It's just that I'm kinda in a bit of a slump right now, and he maybe doesn't get none more often than he'd like...(?) Anyway, I mean it on a greater level than sex alone. Poor baby has had to do with dwindling levels of enthusiasm on all fronts, from affection to paying bills. Pretty much, I have been lousy company.

By tired, I mean depleted. I have to dig really deep to get my get up and go to get up and er, go. If I could, I would sleep wherever I happen to be. And sometimes I do - much to my daughters' amusement and my embarrassment (my apologies to the other ballet moms last week. Yes. I did. I know. How embarrassing, right?)

I don't even have to be excessively comfortable to fall into a near-unconscious sleep. I've lost count of the number of times I have tended to a restless child at night before I've gotten to bed, and ended up sleeping through the night in that child's bed. On about 30cm of mattress. With my belt embossing my belly, my underwires piercing into my chest cavity, my trouser legs twisted like climbing ivy around my legs and with only a smidgen of blanket to keep out the cold. Hmmm. I just read that again and a little light went on in the back of my mind. Briefly it flickered, but then the batteries gave in. Yip, still tired.

If you want to do something really nice for me, give me a pillow and a blankie, close the curtains, take everything and everybody away and leave me the hell alone for, say, three days!? That'd be a start, anyway.