This is What Motherhood Looks LIke
I’m engaged in an epic war with a toddler-walking-police-siren and a baby bumper car.
Zoe whines “WHYYYYY!!??” all day long in my ear while Kaiden clasps and bumps into my legs, while screaming at the top of his lungs to be picked up. I am literally a traveling piece of Velcro for these children.
Upon being picked up, Kaiden will immediately revert to playing DEAD POSSUM until he throws his limp body into a backwards tuck and I let him back down to the ground. I think we have Olympic Diver potential on our hands.
This insanity ensues all day long. Under my breath, I repeat this mantra: I JUST CAN’T WIN.
My kids are out to destroy me.
Nothing I do is the “right” thing. Everything is wrong.
Meanwhile, my two and half-year old has suddenly decided that nap time is so passé, Mom. You would think that sleeping was torture.
In my head, I am yelling:
“I WOULD TRADE ANYTHING TO BE YOU. YOU ARE SCREAMING FOR AN HOUR BECAUSE YOU DON’T WANT A NAP?!” I’m waiting for the magic fairy dust in 13 Going on 30 to appear.
I’ll happily trade being Jennifer Garner for being a child again. Though, on second thought, I never want to walk the halls of high school again.
I have a brief story for you. (Disclaimer: I judge myself for this story.)
My husband had to stay late at work the other night. I couldn’t reach him on the phone, so eventually I decided to have a date-night with my Kindle after a hair-raising day of children screaming every fifteen seconds.
Ahhh, peace and quiet. My Kindle happened to be dead, so I went looking in an old bag for my charger. I reached into the bag I had used to go away in February on the weekend with Chris, and lo and behold, I swiped a razor blade I had left in there (like an idiot) with my finger.
At first, I just stared at this finger gushing blood. It was so interesting, sort of fascinating and weird. I imagine that’s how people feel when they are heavily wounded. I was like, “NO WAY. IS THIS ACTUALLY HAPPENING TO ME?”
Sometimes, I think I’m immortal. No, seriously.
When I was looking at my finger, I was offended. Like, how DARE THE UNIVERSE CONSPIRE TO HURT ME? I dripped blood, everywhere, all the way into the bathroom, and finally found a band-aid to wrap around my finger. I should have applied pressure first, but I was under the assumption (which Chris told me was wrong) that wrapping a band-aid was PRESSURE. Apparently, I was misinformed.
Needless to say, that little slice of finger became a waterfall of blood. I have to say: I was prettttty impressed by the amount of blood that was coming out. I began to feel VERY sorry for myself. After all, here I was, blood pouring out of me, a poor stay at home mom, unable to contact my husband, with no help in sight. All day long, I had wiped snot out of noses, cleaned up orange juice from the floor, and sliced apples. For this?! FOR BLOOD to gush out of my finger once I had a moment alone!?
Somehow, at the end of the next half hour, I had managed to convince myself that I was–for sure– a martyr.
I had laid down MY FINGER for my children and my family.
Then, I started to get mad. I started to feel unappreciated.
So…I concocted a very juvenile and mean plan. I would lay on the bed, not clean up any of the blood, and Chris would walk in on his poor, martyr-wife and feel very very sorry for not picking up my 15 calls.
Yup. I’m mortified about this now. I don’t even know why I’m telling you this, but Chris walked in a very dramatic scene: blood-soaked sheets, a blood-bath in the bathroom, and a conveniently outstretched hand that looked like a Zombie had bitten a piece of my finger off.
He thought I was dead. I am not kidding. My eyes were closed, and my hand was stretched out.
I don’t think I had anticipated that this might happen.
He rushed over and started shaking me.
I know. So terrible. I have no excuse.
These are the moments I realize that despite kids, despite all the supposed “unselfishness” I’m supposed to be building up in adulthood, I am still very much a twenty-something ridiculously dramatic mother. I am still me.
I’m still messed up, I’m still stringing together my motherhood moments, trying to love my children and MESSING UP every single day. There are days where I’m SURE that I’m a good mom, and then the next day, I’ll swipe my finger on a razor and have a HUGE pity party for myself and yell at my husband for not answering my calls when I was bleeding all over the bathroom.
This, my friends, THIS is motherhood. I’m just as impatient, just as dramatic, just as crazy as I was before.
You know what? This might be the time to truly accept myself and stop hiding from the ways I am ridiculous. Stop heaping guilt on this crazy girl that I am and start realizing that DARN IT, I’m doing the gosh-darn BEST I CAN. Motherhood has just exposed all of my eccentricities, all of my problems. Motherhood is DRAMA, people. And that’s okay. I’m a mess. We’re a mess. Welcome to life with myself, the martyr. Life is an adventure right?
My family loves me.
Even when I’m lying on my bed so that my husband will think I’m dead.
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