STAAAAAAAHP with I Can't

My son eats his food wearing only a diaper most of the time.
We're beyond bibs, as in, I'm far too lazy to put on an item of clothing to protect other clothing.
So I just strip him.

Standards fall with every child.
Their hair is a mess?  So what.
What about the food on their face from breakfast and/or snack and/or lunch?  Who cares.
My five year old looks like she got dressed in the dark.  With one hand.  Because the other hand was busy holding a melting fudgsicle.  Big deal.

I complain a lot about my kids.  I'm far from a perfect parent.  I do my best, and I truly love them to bits, but this is a really, really hard gig and the day-in and day-out grind can really get to a Mom.  These kids have truly shown us what matters, and can turn any day, every day, into a great one.  We are not just existing, going through the motions, we are guiding these crazy kids into independence.
I am grateful and lucky, and even while I am crying because it's just been a horrific day, I know that I live a life many could only dream of.

To say I love them  like crazy in one breath, and then to turn to them and growl-yell at them to clean up their messes, would summarize daily mom life.  That's the honest truth.
And I get tired.  Tired of being their Mom.
Love 'em to bits, but I need my space, and I need to decompress after a long day of stupendous behavior- and by stupendous, I mean friggin' awful.

Working out is my safe haven.  My brain clear-er.  My let it out here, because when 'ya get home, those crazy kids will be waiting and you betta' know there will be fresh messes to clean up, but also shouts of "MOM'S HOME!".

I posted on facebook one day, this picture:

I stole borrowed it from a fitness motivation site because it rings so, so true for me.
I struggle an incredible amount with the crazy witch demon in my brain who tells me I can't.  She's right.  I believe her.  I am not a "heavy lifter".  Except I am.  I am whatever the hell I put the work in to be.  And that goes for anything in life.

Why do we give that little jacka** so much power over us?  My brain says, "man, that's a lot of weight.  I'm not sure I can do this."  I haven't even touched the bar, and I've failed.

"Y'know, we were about this weight before and it was totally fine.  Just stop here.  You look great."
As in, there's nowhere to go from here, so just quit and live in this lovely, comfortable, my-clothes-fit place.

I want to go further, I want to do more.  I want to be better.  This self-doubt garbage has got to stop, and I'm working on it.  I am.  It's difficult, but I'll take on the challenge.  I live my life in a way that I can hopefully be around for a long time - I demand it, and my kids deserve it.