“You’re going to have to muster all the mommy patience you
have,” my father in law said, as he headed towards the door on Tuesday night.
And I knew in that instant that all I wanted to do was crawl under the covers
of my bed and cry.
Cry for the past month. Cry for the pain and discomfort and
frustration that my son is going through. Cry for all that I haven’t done, and
all that I have yet to do. Cry for all of the weight on my husbands shoulders
these days. Cry for the feeling in my gut never letting me forget me how
painful and ridiculously hard motherhood feels.
As I write this, I’m sitting at the kitchen table, exhausted
as it is long past the time my head would normally hit the pillow, afraid to
give in and close my eyes. Because I was up with my son four times last night.
Because he won’t stop hitting and throwing things. Because I’m having terrible,
anxiety-ridden dreams. Because I’m afraid of how many times I will again be
awakened before morning. Because of how I will feel tomorrow, and the day after
that.
I’m trying so hard to be thankful in the midst of all this
crazyness, to embrace motherhood no matter what shape it is taking at the
moment, and to remember that everything is a phase and we will eventually come
out on the other side of this.
But it’s hard.
And I know there are other parents out there right now, nodding along as they read these words, wishing they too could get a grasp on their lives. I know they too, you too, have wanted to raise the white flag and surrender, the way I do tonight.
And I know there are other parents out there right now, nodding along as they read these words, wishing they too could get a grasp on their lives. I know they too, you too, have wanted to raise the white flag and surrender, the way I do tonight.
Let’s all admit right now that it’s okay to feel that way.
The last thing we need is more judgment.
What we so need is more honesty, to hear our thoughts and
feelings echoed in others around us.
To know that we are not alone.
To know that everyone is human.
To know that it’s a bad day, not a bad life.
To know that it’s okay to be crying alone in your kitchen at
11:21pm on a Wednesday night.
To know that it’s time to go to bed and turn off the light,
and replenish that mommy patience we all so desperately require.
