A hard day

There are days when I become hopeless, extremely uninterested in doing the same tasks I'll be doing for the next twenty years, the same routine, the same serving role, the same isolation and loneliness. I wonder if I'm truly useful and unique in what I'm giving. I would easily find a woman who would be a better mother and wife; who doesn't scream as much, who is smiling enough, just a little, who wants to sit by her husband at night instead of finishing tasks and going to bed. A mother who hasn't become a robot, who can focus instead of emerging from mental fog every time Teva asks a question. A happy camper. A native. Someone who belongs and understands how friendships and lifestyle and thinking and all this crazy American life. Not uprooted. Not cautious or anxious. A mother who gets what my son's teacher says or what people mumble at church.
A being who looks at her life and feels it was worth it; it was worth leaving my first life behind and becoming a french trophy and a mother of boys; it was worth leaving my culture and ways of living to live here (no). Self-pity party. Selfishness...I guess the individualism of this culture added to the impossibility of having honest relationships added to our unique situation ... all of this is eating me. I'm fed up with the residency thing, this alien way of living, America, consumerism, my belly rolls and ugly beige carpet of the house. One of those days. Just don't mind my tantrum.
On the bright side, my English is now coming more easily than my French, and I tend to use English more often at home. The kids don't progress anymore in French and I would rather have them speak a grammatically correct English than a horrible French mixture that I don't understand. They are mixing sentence structure, gender, vocabulary , tenses, conjugations,and about any aspect of grammar, and sadly, refuse correction (Teva thinks I don't know either languages). I never thought it would happen that early. To loose the only thing you had left (the language) is quite a blow to self-identity...and I'm not ready.
A trip to France wouldn't fix the problem. Over there, I am told that I look and act like an American. Stabbed to the heart.
Marie-Magdeleine. Mary. Maria?
I need to start yoga.