Tired

"If a perfect parent is not what a child needs,what is? A mother who is, in the words of child psychologist D.W. Winnicott, 'good enough.'" --Brie P. Quimby, from Changed by a Child, Barbara Gill

Bath night is every other night. I wash his hair, brush his teeth, dry him off.  In the morning I shave and dress him, make him breakfast, clean up after. He gets a pill in the morning one half hour before breakfast, another exactly two hours after his last meal but one hour before the next one. Mondays I take him to dance class, Wednesday is music therapy. I watch his diet, clip his nails, give him his medicine, use cream on his hands and acne medicine on his face. He likes to shop so I take him along to the supermarket, Target, Wal-Mart, the mall. I attend his ISP meetings, call his program to check in, ask how he's doing. I write in the communication book. When he has a cold, I blow his nose and bring him to the doctor. I call to cancel the van and call him in sick to work. I make his appointments. I comfort and cajole and reward when it's time for a shot or blood test. I find respite workers, doctors, information, educational toys, music that he'll like. I try to make his day easy and his mood happy, or at least, content.
These things I do for my 25-year-old son. I do it with a grateful feeling in my heart because a mother's love for her children is boundless, and I do not know another way to be.
But if I'm going to be truthful, sometimes I get tired.  Sometimes, just every so often, I don't want to do any of it. The feeling never lasts for more than a day, but sometimes it's a few hours. I feel so guilty when I think about wanting to feel free, for just a little while. What kind of mother am I?
I am afraid to say I feel this way, ashamed to admit it. Hell, my fingers have gone to the delete button three times since I put these words to print. I prefer to present a positive face to the world at all times.
Am I normal? Is it normal to feel like I must do these things while at the same time feel like I want someone else to do them? This paradoxical way of thinking is uncomfortable for me. I hate it.
When I need inspiration, I flip through a book I've owned for many years. The author has a gift, not just for words, but for getting to the very heart of feelings that mothers like me experience. Here is what I found today:
Barbara Gill wrote, of raising children with a disability, "We are knitting on at least a dozen needles. It is complicated and it is hard. But we do it. We drop a lot of stitches, but we knit our lives. And what interesting, varicolored, unique garments they turn out to be."