Why do we, as mothers, always feel the need to apologize to everyone else for not having our own shit together? Does our lack of achieving perfection somehow infringe upon the sunshine and rainbows of our peers? We seem to always be apologizing for things that merit no real apologies.
Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m too exhausted to brush my hair most days, much less apologize to the Joneses for the tragedy that is my front yard. So, I’m done.
I’m done apologizing for being late. Getting ready in my house is like training for a marathon with uncooperative, unmotivated little minions. No matter how far I plan in advance, we never make it out the door on time. There is almost always a meltdown over juice, a theatrical tantrum, or a diaper that smells like something just crawled inside it to die. That’s life with babies. Until they are old enough to comprehend punctuality and control their bowel movements, we will continue to be tardy for the party.
I’m done apologizing for my baby weight. Having had two babies quite close together, my body has suffered significant damage. I’m still toting around some extra fluff, and it doesn’t appear to be making its exit any time soon. After getting screamed at for the better part of the day, and negotiating with a tiny terrorist regarding his shoes, I’m just really not in the mood for Zumba. Also, I’d rather snort hot sauce up my nose than walk on a germ-infested treadmill in a gym that reeks of sweaty balls and disinfectant.
I’m done apologizing for my forgetfulness. Oh, I forgot to wish you a generic happy birthday on Facebook? I forgot to RSVP to your 7th wedding shower? I forgot to attend your stupid fucking gender reveal party? Have you ever heard of mom brain? It’s a real thing and it’s incredibly frightening. I have Googled “Alzheimer’s” more than a few times to make sure that I’m not completely losing my shit because I can’t remember what day of the week it is. Ever.
I’m done apologizing for my cooking, or lack thereof. Most days I’m impressed with my mom skills if my boys are fully clothed. I spend my days trying to prevent my kids from getting concussions after doing trust falls from the arm rest of the couch. I spend my days trying to teach a floppy baby how to sit up, so that I can eventually leave his side long enough to pee. If supper is on the table at the end of the day, someone is definitely missing their pants. If it’s haphazardly thrown together and lacks the presentation of an Italian bistro – get over it, or go to fucking Olive Garden because I don’t have time to butter your bread sticks.
I’m done apologizing for not breastfeeding. If you breastfeed your children, I applaud you. It isn’t for everyone. It was hardly a bonding experience for me. Aside from the pain and difficulty, aside from the anxiety and frustration, aside from the fact that it made me feel like a farm cow – it also did some damage to what was once a pretty nice rack. I don’t need a cult of boob mongers telling me that I’m a terrible mother.
I’m done apologizing for looking like a hot mess. I will always, almost 100% of the time, not have myself put completely together. I don’t have time to disguise my tired face. I don’t have time to highlight my 4-inch roots. I don’t have time to locate the whereabouts of the one pair of jeans in the entire closet that doesn’t make me resemble a muffin. Also, I don’t have time to give a shit about looking like a desperate housewife. That’s what filters are for.
I’m done apologizing for the mess at my house. I live with a man, two boys under the age of two, and a hyperactive dog. We conjure up a bit of filth. Though our home is usually well kept (thanks to the OCD nature of my husband), there is almost always a bottle hidden in somewhere in the couch, a hot wheel that missed roll call, and a hairball lingering on the rug. We live there. Dirt happens.
I’m done apologizing for my hormones. Yes, I cry at the Toyota commercial. Also, the Subaru commercial. I have an irrational hatred for The View and will wake up angry with you if you were rude to me in my dreams. I experience giddy highs and manic lows, all in the course of one day. Hormones are relentless bitches and I have no control over them.
I’m done apologizing for complaining. Motherhood is hard. If anyone tells you differently, they are likely medicated. Most moms are sleep-deprived. Most have serious body image issues. Most have ZERO personal space or time, and many haven’t showered in days. And though the fruits of our labor are completely worth it, we deserve to complain sometimes.
I’m done apologizing for that glass (or three) of wine. At the end of a long day spent battling the egos of toddlers and arguing with a boy whose vocabulary consists mainly of the names of various farm animals, it feels nice to take the edge off sometimes. That glass of wine is the pot of gold at the end of a very demented rainbow. And let’s be honest – we’re all a little happier after mom gets that much-deserved pinot.
Apologies are just another way we subconsciously seek the approval of others. Frankly, I don’t give a shit about that approval anymore. I get all the approval I need from my two perfect, messy, spunky little tornadoes. They love me, despite me.
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