I’m drowning, but that doesn’t make me a bad mom

It’s been a rough couple of days at our house. We are getting back into routine after a week visiting family, where we celebrated Thanksgiving and birthdays for all three kids. There was a long road trip involved. We’re also in a space where, in response to my twins’ new three-year-old skills, I’m starting to set more boundaries around their behavior and their daily habits (open cups instead of sippy, sitting on the toilet instead of a potty seat, etc), and they’re pushing back with lots of regressive behaviors (moaning, whining, helplessness).

And today was really, really rough. Everyone struggled to get out of bed and get started. Everyone was grumpy and nasty. I lost more than once and ended up telling my husband that I needed back-up, prompting him to leave work early so that I wasn’t left to do dinner and bedtime alone (which is standard 2 to 3 nights a week in our family).

In between picking up my twins and picking up my 2nd grader, I opted to go to the library to kill time instead of going home, the place where fights break out and messes are made. While the twins pulled out every book within reach, I took a moment to write down what I was feeling. It’s kind of like a poem, but I don’t write poetry, so it’s not a poem. And it’s dark. I was feeling dark. But I want you to know, before you read it, that, in spite of these feelings being real, I DO NOT feel like a bad mom, nor do I feel guilt for these feelings. I accept that parenting is hard and I believe that I’m doing a really good job and that, if things are ever going to be easier, there is a lot of work to be done on our society.

And if this not-a-poem is relatable to you, then I sure as hell hope that you’re doing something kind for yourself after your kids go to bed. I’ve got a Levain cookie and an episode of Wednesday waiting for me.

Drowning:

I’m drowning in my children. In their needs, 

their insistent repetitive questions, their squabbling and fighting and biting and crying.

I’m drowning in their constant hunger and selective eating, 

in their preferences and refusals, their night time wake ups.  

I’m drowning in their battle for independence that competes with their own desires to stay close and be cared for, wholly, by me. 

I’m drowning in the relentlessness of their existence. 

In the piles of clothes they don’t want to wear because they are so committed to their own sense of style. 

In the toys they scatter.  

In their stacks and stacks and stacks of books and art and used tissues.  

I used to love the beach.

But the rip current that I’m in now is too strong, too fast and I keep waiting for the waves to stop crashing so I can regain my footing, pull myself up, sit on a chair in the sun and rest. 

And breathe.

But until that time comes, and while I’m drowning, I’ll just focus on bobbing my head above water just long enough to gasp for momentary pauses of relief.  

A dinner that everyone eats. 

An easy bedtime. 

An uninterrupted night.  

An outing where we have all the right clothes and snacks and water bottles and the bathroom breaks are simple and fast. 

Small, almost unnoticed milestones that point to a slowly, slowly, slowly, slowly changing tide.