I Love My Kids, But Sometimes I Can’t Stand Being A Mother

“Why are you always so grumpy, Mama?” my five-year-old asks with wide, innocent eyes, as though my ragged mental state has nothing to do with her waking me up at night. For months, she’s been coming to my bed around 2am, standing over me in her purple silk bonnet and star print pajamas, an adorable but terrifying apparition.

She is too young to understand that these interruptions erode my sanity, resulting in a less tolerant, more short-tempered me. Even when I try to explain, her fear of zombies overrides all logic. Still, the question hurts. I’m not always grumpy…right?

A decade into becoming a mother, I’m working harder than ever, often suppressing my needs to prioritize my two kids. As the lead parent, head chef, entertainment director, administrator, bad cop, and buyer of everything-from-toys-to-socks(not to mention a grinding cog in the corporate machine), it’s impossible to do it all with a cheerful attitude, especially without a full night’s sleep. I’m well within my right to be grumpy. But is this all they see?

A great performer makes the show appear effortless, belying years of practice and sacrifice so the audience can lose themselves completely. The reviews are in, and apparently, my performance is lacking. My audience is well aware of my tense voice, tightened jaw and darkened under eyes. I'm executing the moves with all the subtlety of a hunted animal.

As I mulled over my daughter’s question, a thought came to my mind, one that I couldn’t shake: I love my kids, but some days, I can't stand being a mother.

By this, I can’t stand being the person who scolds about lost water bottles, referees fights over the iPad, and threatens to give away our pet tortoise if someone other than me doesn't remember to feed him. When my voice thunders across a playground, no one would believe I was once shy and soft spoken — so timid, in fact, that I allowed my name to be mispronounced for most of my life, starting in kindergarten.

As a parent, I think a lot about how my actions shape my kids. I read books and blogs, listen to experts on podcasts, and Google dozens of questions. But the relationship isn’t one-sided. Unconsciously, my kids have changed me in ways I can’t quantify. They’ve made me braver, stronger and smarter. They’ve also made me more cautious, and less prone to spontaneity. These curly-haired humans have opened my heart to new depths and heights of love, and driven me to the brink of explosion.

With each birth, I’ve waited patiently to feel “like myself again.” But pre-kid me is so far in the rear view mirror, I’m not sure I could ever get back to her. Yet there are moments when I hear her calling, a distant voice reminding me that I’m a person too.

Sometimes, I want to break the fourth wall, like a character in a play, and let my kids in on a secret: This isn't the real me. The real me doesn’t give a flying banana about your water bottle. The real me is planning a trip to Morocco. The real me is writing a novel and drinking crisp rosé. This overbearing, anxious person with bad skin and a cortisol belly is the part I play to keep you alive and our household functioning. You’re welcome.

When I shared this thought with a coworker struggling with her 14-year old, she nodded knowingly. “I'm such a nag at home,” she lamented, visibly sagging in her office chair. “The worst part is, the more I push him, the more he tunes me out.”

It pained me to see us like this: two creative, caring, hard-working women giving 200% to their families, and still feeling like failures.

In a flash of inspiration, I suggested she try something radical: doing less. Not caring less, but doing less. Conserving some of her energy, which she felt was wasted anyway.

“Imagine how good it would feel if your son actually came to you for help, rather than you trying to force it on him all the time,” I said.

“That would be amazing,” she sighed.

I tried to envision what it would look like to take my own advice. What would it mean to do a little less, and conserve some of my own energy? Was it possible to keep up with all my responsibilities without feeling resentful?

I don’t have it all figured out, but I know that I want to feel lighter, more playful. My performance of motherhood may never be seamless, but I’d love to be more present for the fun and the joy.

The next time my daughter asks why I’m so grumpy all the time, I won’t let the question fester. I’ll tickle her, we’ll both laugh, and move on to better things.

Sumitra Mattai is a New York City-based writer, textile designer and mother of two. She holds a BFA in Textile Design from the Rhode Island School of Design and an MFA in Creative Writing from The New School.