Momma lost her basket today. I don't remember where I first heard this phrase. It sounds so delightfully southern, much better than Momma went freaking insane for a couple of hours. My husband wants to blame the episode on the hormone pills that the GYN put me on the other week. Me? Not the hormones. They didn't help, but I suspect that this is his method of coping. It's so much easier for some to deal with "female hormonal shit" than "my wife is mentally unstable and home with our child".

In an odd way, the Toddler is providing most of my emotional babysitting lately. I can't lose my gourd while she's watching because she gives me this Look. I remember that look. I used to give it to my Mama when she would sit in a chair and try to hold the sobs in. Our situations? Possibly a result of the same biochemical cocktail. Our environment? Worlds of difference in that. My husband comes home and tries to make my life better. He gets up with our daughter whenever I need him to, he is willing to take over all bedtime and dinner responsibilities, he happily does whatever, whenever. Well, maybe not always happily, but he doesn't drag his feet and try to weasle out of it. As opposed to my mother's husband, who may have had biological input in my creation, but who has absolutely no claim on anything I turned out to be today. Sorta. (shrug)

So in the meantime what do I do? Just keep breathing. Just keep getting up in the morning. Just keep going on. Because if I don't that's just one more mark against me in the harsh backbrain, and they've got too much to work with back there already. I'm not feeling the need to make any more problems for myself.