I'm kind of wondering what's the point of life right now.

Now, before anyone gets worried, don't get me wrong: I don't mean that in a suicidal, why-should-I-go-on-living kind of way. I'm speaking more in an existential, cosmic, possibly-having-an-early-mid-life-crisis sense.

I get up in the morning and spend an hour or ninety minutes rushing around, getting everyone ready, freaking out if it seems like they are going to be late. I run them to school. I come home and sit in front of the t.v. or computer screen, devoting my time to inconsequentialities. I go pick up kids and spend the rest of the evening doing mundane tasks to get ready to start all over again the next morning. Every weekday is spent wishing it would hurry up and be over with, already, to get me one day closer to the weekend when Robert comes home. The weekend comes and goes in the blink of an eye and I'm back to Monday and the whole damned thing starts over again. No friends, no activities, no hobbies. Just me, in a house, existing. Which begs the question: what IS the point? What am I actually accomplishing? What is the purpose of me being here, day in and day out? Do I have one?

Oh, sure, in the long-term I guess I have at least one purpose -- to raise good kids. But the end result of that is so far off, and it's only one thing. Surely that can't be my only reason for being. What if I'd never had kids? What would be my purpose then? It can't be the only thing for which I exist.

I find it sad that I'm wasting my life by wishing it away. I wish the week would go faster so it would be the weekend. I wish the month would go faster so my next trip would arrive. One of these days I will run out of time to wish away. It will be the end of my life -- will I realize, too late, that I have spent all my time waiting for the next weekend or the next vacation and neglected to enjoy the present? That would be tragic and unfortunate. Certainly there has to be a reason for my being here, on this planet, at this time -- something that is relevant every day. My entire existence can't be hinged on my next vacation or my next planned activity. That's what it feels like now, though. All I'm doing is taking up space, staring at the wall, performing pointless tasks, paddling furiously to keep my head above water, and for what? Will the world fall off its axis if my carpet's not vacuumed, or if my kids are late to school, or if they don't go to school at all? Am I really accomplishing anything of any relevance to the universe by treating these things as though they are important?

Great....now I have an existential dilemma AND a headache. Thinking sucks. I'm going to bed, for my 7 hours of sleep which will be punctuated by at least three wakings from the baby. Because who really needs to be well-rested for yet another day of vehicle-less-ness and diaper-changing?

The ennui train is now departing the station.