Motherhood is f*cking hard. And lately it seems like every day I’m doing nothing but failing. Over. And over. And over. I suppose maybe it’s the fact that it’s summer and my three kids are constantly in my face All The Time. Or maybe it’s the fact that not only are they in my face nonstop, but they are fighting nonstop. Over NOTHING. Over looking at each other. Or not looking at each other. Or breathing. Or maybe it’s the fact that no one seems to listen. Like ever. Until I’ve practically gone hoarse from yelling so loudly, but even then it’s questionable if they’ll actually listen or just merely acknowledge I’m speaking to them (or in this case yelling). Or maybe it’s the fact that I take the time to cook dinner every single night and no one eats anything. Yet I get asked for a snack at least every three minutes all day long. But when I offer a minimum of four healthy choices for a snack all hell ensues and tantrums are had by all simply because the only thing that can cure the apparent aching hunger pains of my kids is fruit snacks. Or maybe it’s the fact that anytime I even attempt to do something productive, three hurricanes follow right behind me and destroy everything. Maybe it’s the fact that my middle child is going through some serious shit and I don’t know if I’m capable of handling it, let alone handling it properly. Or the best one yet – maybe it’s the fact that I idiotically decided to try and go a week without having a drink. Pure madness, I know.
Whatever the case may be, so often lately I’ve found myself losing my absolute shit. To the point where I swear I’m having an out-of-body experience because all the while I’m freaking out at my kids, inside I’m telling myself, you’re crazy. They’re just little kids. Be the adult. Shut the hell up. But yet that voice of reason is just never quite strong enough in the moment to help me pull myself together. Instead that little voice just simmers politely until about 10:00 p.m. when I’m trying to go to sleep. That’s when it comes blazing back to life. And what was once the voice of reason now turns into the loquacious mastermind of guilt. It likes to remind me over and over how I SHOULD have handled the situation. How I SHOULD have remained calm. How I SHOULD have controlled the 18 things that just flew out of my mouth in the heat of the moment that are undoubtedly going to put my kids on the couch of some high-paying therapist sometime during their adult life.
As a parent or even just as an adult I’d say it’s safe to say that at least more often than not, we learn from our mistakes. Isn’t that part of the definition of even being an adult? Having the capability to stop, reflect and learn. Yet why does it seem like I can never figure out how to properly keep my cool in a tense or frustrating situation?! Why is it that these little people somehow have the ability to put this spell over me that sends me straight to Crazy Town? Because certainly that isn’t something that any adult has the capability of doing to me (well, okay my husband does, but I think that’s just par for the course). I seriously feel like my hard drive is frying some days as I’m constantly being hounded with a barrage of “MOM!” everywhere I go with three people yelling out three different demands simultaneously. There are times that I just can’t focus on a single thing or even hear myself think, which admittedly I’ve even shouted out loud before.
I often wonder if these are just “normal” mom feelings or if I’m some sort of uncontrollable freak that needs therapy herself. (Dad, if you’re reading this OF COURSE I need therapy for a laundry list of reasons but that’s not my current point.) On a handful of occasions I’ve witnessed what ideal parenting is like when a child is in the midst of a shit storm and I simply sit back and stare in awe. Because as much as I WANT to be that parent, more often than not, I’m the farthest thing from it. So am I in the minority or are those patient, docile parents? Who knows! The only thing I do know for certainty – and back to my original point – is that motherhood is damn hard.
But after all of this hemming and hawing, at the end of the day, of course I love my children with all my heart and want nothing more than to help them be happy, healthy, good humans. So thankfully, tomorrow is another day – another day to love and forgive my children – as well as myself. Because the two go hand in hand and are equally important. Obviously none of us are perfect, but I like to think that we’re perfect for each other.