Fuck it

Yesterday, I said, fuck it.

Nothing was going right. The bus was late. I hadn’t eaten. I forgot an assignment. My work lost my pay cheque. If I took her my daughter to karate it would mean three more buses and little time to go to the dinner we had scheduled. So I said fuck it. It felt amazing. She didn’t parish, I didn’t, the world didn’t- she didn’t even mind.

There’s this pressure to be it all (I wrote about this way more in depth and eloquently here) and it is a ridiculous, but easy, pressure to succumb to. Right now I raise my daughter, shop, clean, cook, work for three different magazines, attend university, stay active with my daughter’s school/Sparks/karate/daycare, do freelance work, maintain this blog and there’s, as of quite recently, a diabetic cat to care for. It is OK to say fuck it.

I mean on top of my personal list – which is similar to many other parents out there – we are still supposed to engage in luxuries like showering (not so much a luxury but a need not to spread diseases, also it is always easier to have the little one with you, who really takes away the luxury when they ask what those lines on your thighs are)

It is OK to get take-out for dinner; it is OK to be late, it is OK to skip an extra-curricular altogether. It is OK to cancel plans. It is OK to say, “No.” It is OK to play a stupid game on your cell phone because fuck it, it is all you have sometimes! IT IS OK TO ASK FOR HELP.

FUCK. IT.

I really hope you do. It feels magical

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