In my opinion, stories like this from other moms in the trenches, sisters in “there’s spit up on your shirt” solidarity are not shared nearly often enough. In some moments, they’re pretty much the only thing keeping me sane, reminding me that whatever it is I’m struggling with as a mom, “it’s okay” because out there are other women also staring down a house project to-do list that started a year ago and never gets a darn thing checked off. Or maybe it does but I just keep adding more that progress seems a mirage. It’s super overwhelming.
“Isn’t it funny how parenting works out? It’s just so loud, even when they are asleep. You can never turn parenting off. It’s a good thing it’s what we always wanted, isn’t it?” – the 42-year-old mother at the library who has finally had that baby after 12 years of trying but still feels tightly wound at the end of the day
Last weekend I was in such a funk. Trying to be a good wife, I even kept warning Mumbles about my mood, throwing him daring glances over my shoulder as I furiously washed another sinkload of dishes. I cursed. A lot. And then I silently scolded myself for being short with him. In the next breath I was pissed at myself because what if I’m cursing too much and Declan is aware of my negative aura and his first words are the kind you have to bleep out?
And in a snap I was back to cussing and not caring because my fingers were turning to prunes, my manicure was chipping (said manicure was hurriedly performed on myself just one hour prior to my friend’s wedding a few days earlier…needed to clarify that point because what mom has the leisure time to patiently paint her nails?), and I was taking too long to do the damn dishes and I’m probably the one responsible for the drought in California. Sorry. If it’s not my never-ending dish doing, it’s surely my 20 minute showers. The showers hide the tears, folks. (Kidding! KIDDING.)
Just like the author, Kate, says: it all feels very tragic. And it is. Especially when I read that she hasn’t unpacked from a month ago – because neither have I, which means I’ll probably just not unpack and take the same bag with me next time we go to Havasu, and then I can rid myself of that guilt, call it time management and efficiency, and pat myself on the back. But thinking of all those dirty clothes in that bag reminded me that I forgot to move the baby clothes from the washer to the dryer the night before so now they’re probably all mildew-y and I’ll have to rewash them. More bad words.
And that’s how it goes. But then your baby giggles or cocks his head to the side with a smile, or does some other ridiculous thing that is so cute it breaks your heart and all the little pieces melt back together so you don’t even care that you don’t have time to put on makeup or do your hair or get out of your workout clothes (because – high five! – I totally made it to the gym!).