Martian Child

I just finished a really sweet movie called Martian Child. It's got John Cusack and nobody else that I really care about in it. I was hoping for something like Grosse Point Blank: Baby Blues and ended up with a decent story bogged down in politically correct, new age parenting weak-kneed slush.
The bones of the story are good; It's about a recently widowed Sci-Fi writer who adopts a defective kid who thinks he's an alien. There's also a stock Hollywood "nutty girl with a heart of gold" who's most notable achievement in the whole film is that she first shows up in an outfit almost identical to the one I wore to my sister's wedding. (Sorry about that, Sister.)
It made me think alot about myself, and how I've been for the past month or so. Night time is when I do most of my thinking, and each night I've gone to bed wishing I hadn't yelled so much, or been so bitchy to the kids, or had put just a little more effort into the whole parenting thing. I used to be so enthusiastic about it; When the oldest learned to read, learned her letters, I was so much a part of it. Now I just feel like I'm faking it. I get up in the morning just trying to keep the house from being destroyed. I count the hours until bedtime. Most of my pleasure comes from my morning walk alone, reading about the gardening I hope to do, or the cigarette breaks I take on the front porch, back wedged against the door to keep the screaming hordes from following me.
I guess burnout happens to everyone, but unfortunately I can't put the kids on hold until I work out my issues. I was so angry about a huge mess that happened in the front room today, I just started throwing toys back into the bin. My oldest walked up, on her tiptoes, and whispered "Can I help you, Mommy?" in a very concilitory tone, and I know that moment is going to be wedged into her brain for the rest of her life.
I don't want to be remembered as the mood-swing mommy.