From the moment I begin my day to the second my feet collasp on my mattress, I am at service. I clean up shit all day long, figuratively and literally. Poo and shit; feces and just crap all over the place – constant and automatic… this mechanics of the household just wants more and more and more. As a Stay-at-Home mom (by choice) I really do get the luxury of basking in the joy of my children everyday – and I mean that without sarcasm. I’m lucky – I know it, I feel it, I bathe in it. But…….. it’s not just about art projects and make believe – we forget about the every day tasks when we build up our ideal scenarios in our heads. And wahlah, you find yourself enjoying a trip to Walmart because it feels like an escape from just an endless set of self imposed tasks. An adventure! Walmart… I hang out at Walmart (head hangs low).
But it works. It feels right. Most days, we are a well oiled machine. I pop my anti-depressants and make sure to keep my thyroid in line and we live in a perfect little bubble. It does work… until it doesn’t.
Some days the screams and needs just bleed into a continuous scramble of damage control and some days I run from discarded clothing to half empty juice container – trying hard to put everything in its place for just one second. That’s all I need. If I can just get everything in order for one second, I’ll be able to breath. Breath in…
One, two…. cheerios on the floor.
Three, four…. toddler running out the door.
Five, six… navigating a series of nos and can’ts.
Seven, eight… someone took a dump in their pants…….again
I’m exhausted and frustrated and just oh, I do feel so very neglected. I don’t even know what I expect out of my spouse for appreciation… just something… anything. Anything that makes this feel like I’m succeeding.
Business and career advancement were easy compared to this. It’s not the kids (they are the perks) and it’s not the chores per say… it’s the endless small jobs that just all chain together into a marathon. It’s the small things that don’t seem significant to even mention but become a day’s task to just get ahead of.
He’ll never understand. He says he does but that’s almost even more insulting. You can’t and you don’t and you probably never will. Helping me isn’t sitting on the couch with the kids while I have a break to cook dinner by myself. Being a support system isn’t cleaning up the dishes while I rally the rest of the house. The planning, the shopping, the teaching, the disciplining…
And maybe I do ask too much. Maybe this is just too hard for me. Maybe I’m just not the right type of woman to just accept this. Sometimes I doubt myself and start to believe it. But I am a good mom. I’m just tired and used and a little chewed up. Tired.
I am fighting against my self. I’m waging this daily war against this prophecy of a perfect living space that just seems so unattainable sometimes. It shouldn’t be this hard. Sometimes I wish I could be that wife and mother that just gives herself fully without feeling the resentment I feel when I’ve been forgotten about. Forgotten about. The key words. Perhaps it’s not about appreciation but rather about acknowledgement.
Hey hun, I noticed you cleaned up the pee by the toilet that’s been marinating since two days ago when I missed my imaginary piss-tol target. Thank you.
Hey Mom, you know how I enjoy pouring out every single liquid you give me to drink despite all the fancy, expensive containers that have misled you into believing that they were spill proof. I especially love making a pool of water right above all the books. Thank you for undersanding my need to explore… and of course, for always having a towel on hand.
A thank you. A genuine thank you. Not an automatic response to fake gratitude.
It’s clearly been a rough day for me. Great moments but I gave a little too much of myself and started to run out of reserves. You know what would help right now… a tantrum. A fucking kicking-on-the-floor, screaming like a banshee tantrum. To be able to screech and shout and just shake it all out (if you read that in the tune of the hokey-pokey, I’m talking to you right now). This should seriously be a prescribed spa package / physiotherapy for mothers. I mean Laughter Yoga is for newbs, Tantrum Yoga sounds like my cup of Enlightenment.
But in all seriousness, just say thank you to your loved ones. Nothing else – just a simple but poignant thank you.