I wrote this a few weeks ago, but was afraid to share it. After re-reading it, I think some of y’all might appreciate it.
Having a mommy moment here. Please excuse me while I run screaming naked down the street – from my daughters.
Let’s go back in time. I’m a young’n. My first baby is two-years-old. I’m lying on my side on the floor, utterly drained. Who knew how exhausted a stay at home mom could get? And she toddles over to me. That’s Bunny Wabbit for the record. She leans over on her tiny sausage legs and puts her hands on my cheeks and kisses me. Her smile is amazing, filled with trust and love. My heart is swollen ten times it’s size. I’m in love.
Fast forward fourteen years. There are two girls now. Both teens (or damn close to it.) And Bunny Wabbit? She’s almost my height. Looks a lot like a petit version of me, but exotic, and stunning. I’m still lying on the floor (metaphorically speaking,) still a sahm, still exhausted. Oh what a ride it’s been.
You see, I went into this parenting thing with stars in my eyes. Really? I think it was hormones, but who’s counting? I love these teenagers to pieces. What parent doesn’t love their babies, even if it’s furry children we’re talking about. Love them, sure. Life didn’t really get interesting, fun, or well, worth living until they came along. My own furry babies, a ferret, and two cats, weren’t enough for me to nurture so I had these biological children – on purpose. I keep reminding myself this. We were in active baby making mode both times.
Now here we are, seventeen plus years since I started this parenting nightmare adventure and I think you might need to put me in a mental health facility if one of them snarks at me one more time. Or rolls their eyes, just so.
Here’s a confession for you: I go through these phases when I won’t even look at Facebook because of the parent bragging going on. Yes I know you have beautiful, talented, wonderful, perfect children. I’ve met them. I’m proud of your kids too. So yay you! But, wait a minute here. Why doesn’t anyone share the downside too? Why do I have to break down in tears in front of the schools receptionist before I hear the black side of this parenting thing? That so many of you know what I’m going through, and yet won’t admit it?
Why, I ask, do we hide it? It’s hard. Really really hard shit and it should NOT be a secret that this is a very real, very scary side of having young ones.
Perhaps it would deter others from having children – is that the reason? Is it because we think it reflects on our parenting style? Our poor moral cloth? Being there are so many of us in so many different life situations raising our kids so many different ways and we all have the same issues – I think that really it’s only mildly a parenting issue. I’d say more so a teenager (insert age here) issue.
So this whole “challenge” has me sharing my story like the sad sahm that I am with just about anyone who questions my weird antics. From Target clerks wondering why I’m buying two alarm clocks (to add to the one that’s already in BW’s bedroom – the chica will NOT get out of bed in the morning,) to anyone who will listen.
So there I was, sharing my child’s – well, for lack of a better phrase “growing pains” with a guy I went to school with twenty-seven years ago, over Panera yumminess. He could relate, shared his own story, gave me a pep talk of sorts: “They’ll come out of it, one of these days.” This made me feel a trifle better. Then of course the receptionist crying right along with me saying, “Oh honey, it will get better.” She survived it. Is surviving it. She shared her story as well. That helped a ton.
Then I get a text from Little Bear at school. Bad morning this was. Both of the kids snarking and grumping at me. The basic gist of the text? “Mamma I don’t feel good. Sorry I was mean to you this morning. Can I come home?” My heart melts. Mamma. She called me mamma. Sigh.
Then bed time comes and BW has found the alarm clocks I’ve hidden throughout her room beneath the clothes she strews about. They’ve been unplugged and stowed where they won’t bother her. I of course, being the mother on a verge of a nervous breakdown, have a mommy tantrum. And does she bate me this time, like usual?
Nope. She does the thing she’s so very good at, the thing that’s part of the core of her being. She hugs me. Apologizes. Tells me she’ll try harder not to bate me anymore. Tears, love, heart growing, all that shit.
Damn those kids.
They can even ruin a perfectly good kid rant blog.