✦ MOTHERHOOD | THE JOURNAL
I swear, if my two year old’s little frozen popsicle hands touch my bare skin one more time, my head might spin a full 360 degrees. My shift as Mama starts around 5:30 in the morning, and somewhere between the constant chorus of “Mama, Mama, Mama” and a toddler physically pushing me away from the kitchen cabinets while I’m trying to cook dinner, I’ve started considering a legal name change. I’ve actually told my daughter I’m changing my name. I’ve also asked her if she’s aware she has another parent. And here’s the thing. I love being a mom. I’m incredibly grateful to be a stay at home mother. But by the end of some days, I’m so overstimulated that I want to peel my skin off like a Band Aid just to get five minutes of relief.
That’s the part of motherhood I don’t think we talk about enough. You can love someone with every fiber of your being and still desperately want a moment where nobody touches you, calls for you, or needs anything from you. Take nap time, for example. My daughter has always been a contact sleeper. That’s what works for our family, and my parenting decisions aren’t up for debate here. I treasure those naps because I know she won’t always be this little. But after an hour and a half pinned underneath a sleeping toddler, I’d also really like to pee.
Then she wakes up hungry, cranky, and missing Daddy, while I’m trying to figure out dinner. By evening, the house looks exactly like it did that morning, despite all the laundry, cleaning, and picking up I’ve done. Anything I put away is immediately retrieved by my very enthusiastic little shadow. Some days, the only evidence I’ve accomplished anything is the smell of dinner cooking in the crockpot. Thank goodness it’s crockpot season, because at least that thing can finish a task without asking me to pick it up.
Underneath the jokes, though, there’s guilt. Guilt about the house, guilt about needing a break, and guilt about those moments when my patience finally runs out. Because sometimes, I snap. I get short tempered. I raise my voice. Sometimes I cry because I’m so overwhelmed, and afterward I feel terrible. I’m trying to teach a tiny, practically identical version of myself how to regulate her emotions while I’m still learning how to regulate my own. When I lose my patience, I step away if I need to. Then I get down on her level, apologize, and tell her she didn’t deserve my reaction. She usually apologizes right back, because apparently she’s inherited my habit of saying sorry for everything. Then she moves on with her day while I’m still replaying the whole interaction.
I’m not suggesting that being overwhelmed excuses snapping at our children. But pretending it never happens doesn’t help either. We can acknowledge our mistakes, repair them, and work on responding differently without allowing one difficult moment to define us. Sometimes that also means recognizing when we need help. Seven days before my daughter was born, I unexpectedly lost my dad. Three months into motherhood, while navigating grief and probate alongside life with a newborn, I was diagnosed with severe postpartum anxiety and postpartum depression. For much of that first year, I struggled to let anyone other than my mother help because I worried I’d be inconveniencing people. Treatment helped, and as my daughter grew older, accepting help became easier. I started realizing that being her mother didn’t mean I had to do absolutely everything myself.
But here’s the ridiculous part. I can spend an entire day dreaming of thirty minutes where nobody needs me. Then I finally get a break, take a deep breath, relax for approximately five minutes, and immediately start missing my daughter. Sometimes I even go pick her up early from her grandparents. MAKE IT MAKE SENSE. Maybe that’s what makes motherhood so complicated. I can treasure our contact naps and still need to pee. I can be thankful for the opportunity to stay home and still be exhausted. I can need a break and miss my daughter the moment I get one.
Maybe another mother is reading this after a long day, wondering why she’s so overwhelmed when she loves her children so much. I hope she laughs. I hope she recognizes a little of herself. And I hope she knows she can ask for help, take responsibility when she loses her patience, and acknowledge the difficult parts of motherhood without feeling ashamed of every uncomfortable emotion. Because I really do love being a mom. But sometimes? I would just like everybody to keep their hands to themselves for five freaking minutes.
With love and a little grace,
Ashton ♡
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