David and I were talking last night, and out of the blue I said, “You know, last week I decided I’ve sort of reached my threshold with this stay-at-home-mom thing.”
David’s response? “Yeah. I could see that.”
As I type this, all three kids are scream-crying. All of them. All three. If you think that I’m hiding from them right now with this blog and half a sleeve of Thin Mints, you’re wrong. It’s an entire sleeve.
I want to know if other full-time parents ever feel that their kids would actually be happier in daycare. Because sometimes I wonder who this is benefitting. Yes, I’m there to pick the girls up from school, and I can be here to put Cian down for his nap, when he takes one (oh my goodness why won’t he take one anymore?!), but other than that? Do they really want to live with a frazzled mother so overwhelmed by the constant futility of cleaning this mess she’s practically hanging out the door waiting for relief to show up at 6 o’clock? Do I ever actually spend quality time with the kids, or am I just an underpaid referee and task master? I’m starting to think the only real reason I’m at home is so that the grocery shopping can get done during the week when the stores aren’t as busy. In the meantime, my brain has turned so mushy and stale and boring I look forward to The Bachelor as quality entertainment.
I do believe that right there is hitting rock bottom.
I love my children so much my body feels like it can’t contain it all sometimes. But that’s a given. The reality is that this life I’m always telling you I’m so thankful for is pure and utter monotonous chaos that makes me occasionally want to open up the door and keep on walking. On a totally unrelated note, have you ever wanted to know what cats sound like when they’re getting run over by a slow-moving train? Come on over to my house around 3 p.m. after I’ve asked the girls to tidy up the playroom.
They are precious, and pure, and in my eyes, perfect. But I’ve come to realize that just because I love my children heart and soul and inside and out doesn’t necessarily mean I always love being a mother. Most of the time, yes. Most of the time. But at 3 p.m., when I’m shouting, “STOP YOUR SHOUTING!” and totally losing control and hating myself for it and wondering what the hell any good any of this is doing? Then, well. I think that a choice I made in order to be the best mom I wanted to be has sort of backfired a little bit.
Then again, the girls are happy now, lying together on the (still messy) playroom floor. Cian is talking to a magazine and crawling over to slobber-kiss me. The house is, for now, quiet.
Maybe I can do this another day, after all.