It's 10:00 p.m. on Monday night. I'm whipped. Tuckered out. Melting. And I need a mama rant.

You should see my living room: pillows askew on the big green couch, puzzle pieces littered about, Sunday's Chicago Tribune that I've yet to open still encased in its plastic cover, so many Little Mermaid accessories I've lost count, coasters scattered on the table (hey - at least I use coasters!), and under it, my group therapy texts - off the bookshelf because the 4 year-old likes to flip through them-not me (I'm serious).

The kitchen isn't much better. Or the dining room table. Or the desk piled high with bills and mail and magazines and the endless supply of catalogues. I'd be writing this lying on my bed, but there are too many clothes on it (at least they are folded...and clean). I could escape to the bubble bath, but earlier I saw some sketchy scum in the corner, and it just freaks me out to get too close to it. So I'm here on a clutter-cleared corner of the dining room table gazing at the day's destruction and wondering how in the hell my friends make it look so easy. Their houses are not only clean, but neat. Their bills always appear to be paid and filed. Their catalogues sit all classy in the magazine rack next to the living room chair. Everything is so...tidy.

And their children go to bed at 6:30 pm. Yup, that's right - the 6:30 that comes before dusk. The 6:30 that leaves a good 4 hours of functioning time for my friends to talk to their husbands or read a book or shave their legs. The 6:30 bedtime, I'm afraid, my daughter has never seen nor ever will see. She isn't an easy one to put to bed. We have our routine: potty, bath, teeth, book, bed. And most nights we get through it - not always easily, but we do get through it. And she does eventually fall asleep (though not without numerous magic spells with her magic wand, a prayer to her dream catcher, or story after story after story of a super4yearold saving the world - well, actually three worlds: the sky, the sea, and the land). But I have to stick around until she does. I know the books all tell me she needs to fall asleep on her own, but I don't think the authors have met my daughter. She doesn't do subtle. She will follow me downstairs thirty times or until I am cross-eyed with sleeplessness. If I'm next to her, she'll usually drift off in 15-20 minutes. I'm not completely convinced this is a good or bad thing. It just is. But - at the same time I wonder why I feel the need to justify this part of our routine, I'm hoping someone who reads this will grant me absolution...crazy.

Anyway, tonight was a hard one. After an hour of tantrums and procrastinations and cries of ,"I don't wanna be 4" and "I don't wanna sleep in my bed", I had just about cracked. I removed myself from the room for a minute to breathe only to return and repeat the same process over. But this time, the precious little angel I call my daughter had locked us in her room (for some reason, the door handle is on backwards and it locks from outside...she had turned the lock). So I had to perform door surgery with a scissors 'cause there was no way in holy hell I was staying in that room all night! I managed to get the door handle off, but my blood pressure was boiling and her crying hadn't subsided. But with great effort - or more like divine intervention - I stopped huffing and puffing because it was just aiding her escalation, and like magic she quieted. She asked for another stuffed animal and within minutes was asleep. No signs of her angst or tears. Just peace.

I want some peace, damnit.

Do you know I caught myself last week sticking my tongue out at her? I was in the other room where she couldn't see me, but still...I stuck my tongue out at my child! What am I, a juvenile? An ingrate? Or just a horrendously impatient mom who has so much to learn - and who worries there is no way she'll ever learn it before irreparably screwing up her daughter? Yep - that's the one.

I thought this parenting thing would be easier for me since I wasn't working this summer. But it took all of three days for my daughter to be as sick of me as I was of trying to entertain her. At her request (and with my blessings) she returns to school tomorrow. And I'm gleeful. And I feel guilty. And I don't really care I feel guilty - except when I do. This is the stuff no one tells you about. You'd think four years of being blindsided by it would make me a pro by now, but my stomach still sinks and my heart still aches when I feel like I'm just not good enough for her.

My mom calls it earning our mommy stripes. If my collection thus far is any indication, I'll be one decorated -and delirious - mom.

This post is cross-posted at Notions of Identity