Being a mom is hard. Before I had kids I struggled juggling college and work. Always both. I was always rushing to one place or the next trying to get there on time. To finish my homework, to put away the thousands of clothes women dropped on the floor of the dressing room (they don’t magically reappear on the store racks. There’s one or two people out there that get the job of picking up after others.)
I’m tackling this parenthood thing without juggling the work aspect on top of it. Yes, I’m lucky that way. But. It’s vital. I’m the one watching my son’s blood sugars at school, bringing extra supplies in for him, driving him to/from school so his insulin pump doesn’t shut off from the cold.
I’m the one who is reading the middle one’s communication notebook, trying to assist with the difficult task of figuring out what my nine year old truly understands and is just being sassy refusing to do. Or if she’s struggling with some unknown illness or injury (she had a cold for a month and daily I wondered is it a sinus infection? Ears? Allergies? And then poof-she was better.
I’m the one that washes the dishes, cooks most of our meals, washes the million loads of laundry we make. My “me” time without kids is usually buying laundry soap, wrapping holiday gifts, addressing Christmas cards.
Some days I’m tired of caring for others. I don’t want to wash another plate. I don’t want to check the blood glucose meter to make sure my son is testing his blood glucose when we ask him to, seeing another blank line in the Dexcom application, wondering why my kid opens her windows in 20F weather when I tried to get the upstairs rooms warm enough before bed. I don’t want to change my nine year old’s poopy pull up and remind her she needs to use the potty. I don’t want to wash blankets that have been peed on even though I know bed-wetting is normal in kids. I don’t want to trip over another stuffed animal or hear my daughter scream she hates me during a five year old’s tantrum.
I’m tired. I’m cranky. Quite frankly I’m a bit lonely sometimes because unless I run errands the only people I talk to are my kids and husband or the swarm of friends that live in my phone.
I allowed myself to cry and feel. Because some feelings hurt. But then I pulled on my Wonder Woman tiara because quite frankly I don’t have time to wallow in the darkness of depression and feeling sorry for myself. I cannot compare my parenting to others, nor can I compare my kids to others. This is our battle, we rise gracefully and we fight our own battles.
And I kind of like my tiara even if it’s plastic and from McDonald’s. It makes me feel pretty and happy. Wonder Woman wouldn’t be hard on herself and say “oops, I should have stopped that villain.” She fights the villains. So will I.
Power on, my world of Super Moms and Dads. Whether you’re fighting a world of diabetes, nebulizer treatments, cancer treatments, miscarriages, birth defects, depression, puberty, terrible twos or whatever villain that ails you find the strength. I send you virtual hugs. And I’m going to continue scrubbing the toilet and washing laundry before my kids get home and demand something. But first I need to do some yoga. And take care of me.