today

It wasn't until Knox spit up the full contents of his last bottle down the inside of shirt that I lost it. I stood in the kitchen eating nacho-flavored tortilla chips as Edie sat on the plastic potty for the third consecutive hour yelling at me that she didn't have to go and that she wants to wear diapers forever and I began sobbing. And through the tears, all I could think of was Jim Gaffigan's stand up bit where he talks about what having kids feels like....

"Imagine you're drowning. And then imagine someone throws you a baby..." 

Life feels a lot like that right now. Like I'm drowning in reflux and potty training and weaning and sleep training and sleep depravation and a postpartum identity crisis. I don't want to complain. It feels so ridiculous to complain about such privileged problems, problems I chose to submerge myself in when I CHOSE to stay at home with our children. I want to be able to say that I feel on top of the world and that being a mother is the greatest and that I feel fulfilled by the monotony. But today, I won't say that.

Because, today, I can't say that.

Today, I am going to acknowledge the feelings that nobody wants to talk about because we worry that it makes us look like an ungrateful asshole. And it may make me look like an asshole but today, I don't really give a shit. 

Because today, I don't so much like being a mom.

Today I wish I didn't feel like I'm drowning. Today, I wish my life wasn't ruled by monotony. Today, I wish I had a taste of my old, carefree, childless life. Today, I wish I didn't feel like crying into my tortilla chips was my only option. Today, I wish I didn't always smell like one of their bodily functions or that my clothes weren't always stained by one of them wiping their dirty mouths. Today I wish I didn't only buy clothes that are solely functional and "play-date appropriate". Today, I want to know what it feels like to have an identity outside of my kids. Today, I resent how all-consuming it is. Today, I wish I didn't have the responsibility of keeping it together in front of the three people who are the source of why I am struggling to keep it together. Today, I wish I could go on strike and tell everyone in my house to fuck off.

Today, I wish my hair wasn't falling out and I weighed ten pounds less than I do. Today, I wish my boobs didn't look like sad, empty bags of nothing. Today, I wish my idea of a good time wasn't just a nap that isn't interrupted by a toddler jumping on my face. Today, I envy the boozy brunch crowd. Today, I envy the women who don't have chronic hemorrhoids from pushing out three children. Today, I wish I could drop everything and do whatever I want, whenever I want to do it, and that I didn't have to leave a detailed list of directions for whoever I leave in charge of who I'm running from.

Today, I'm allowing myself to resent my husband. Today, I'm allowing myself to say that it isn't fair that he doesn't have to grow, birth, or feed humans with his body or deal with postpartum hormones. Today, I'm admitting that it isn't fair that he never has to look in the mirror and struggle with not recognizing who he sees staring back at him. Today, I'm letting myself be angry that whether or not I stay at home with our kids, the bulk of the day-to-day responsibility of raising our kids will always fall on me. Today, I'm calling it bullshit that he will never have to know the depth and darkness that I experience battling postpartum hormones nor will he ever fully understand it.

Today, I wish it were me leaving the house each morning to escape the noise, the arguing, the tantrums, the ass-wiping. Today, I wish it were me who could go out of town for a week and and eat a hot meal at a hotel bar by myself while I talk to strangers. Today, I wish it were me who has the important job with an official title; the job you can't wear yoga pants to, the job that allows you to consult other adults about things other than whether or not your charges pooped today. 

Today, I won't preface these feelings with the I love my kids, I really do speech. Today, I wish I didn't feel an ever-present guilt because of a fucked-up culturally engrained myth of the perfect mother. Today, I don't care that there will always be some aspect of motherhood that I could most certainly be doing better at. Today, I'm not going to acknowledge the persistent anxiety that has attached itself to my experience of motherhood like the fucking life-draining leech that anxiety is. Today, I'm going to admit that sometimes, I don't want to fucking cuddle at bedtime. Or ever, actually. Today, I'm going to admit that when my kids yell at me, it takes more self-control that I ever knew I possessed to not scream back even louder and call them an asshole. 

Today, in this very moment, I'm going to admit that I'm struggling.

Today, as I type this, I'm reminding myself that it's okay to not be okay all of the time.

Today, crying into nacho-flavored tortilla chips felt better than eating nacho-flavored tortilla chips.

Today, I will not feel guilty for being human. 

Today, I will validate my feelings in the name of self-care. 

Today, I feel like I'm drowning. 

Today, I'm really looking forward to tomorrow.

Life Lately

Edie prefers to wear her sister’ underwear over her bathing suit in lieu of clothes. A few pats on the back always accompany her hugs-- a trait her father shares. She tells me to go take a nap when I use a tone that she isn’t a fan of. If I’m about to lose my temper, she reminds me to take a deep breath and then asks me, “Mom, are you happy now?” Yes, I am, because it is impossible to stay unhappy around you. When I ask her if she wants to start using the potty like a big girl, she simply responds with a “No thanks. I’m good.” She talks to herself while playing and is happiest sitting in my lap. She refers to her brother as Knoxy or Bubby. She thinks PENIS is the funniest thing to say at the dinner table. She likes to tell people she meets that she was born in New York.

Marlo is currently in that grey area between innocence and an alternative that makes my insides hurt. As such, she's asking such very big questions— questions I don't always have answers to. Mom, why are people mean? Why is that person homeless? Why did someone kill the King? (Referring to Martin Luther King, Jr.) She has a hard time keeping a lid on her emotions. She doesn't walk or run; she skips. She can't decide if she loves or hates or loves her sister. She has anxiety about staying safe. Like me, she can't watch a show or movie without asking 1,001 questions. (Side note: I am now starting to understand why Joe becomes so annoyed when we watch television together.) She sneaks gulps of my iced coffee when I'm not looking. She will ask for one-on-one Mama Time when she needs it. She has very strong opinions on shrimp, mushrooms, and my bangs. All negative, in case you were wondering.

Knox is our last and, as a result, my forever baby. He's taking his time doing everything unlike his eager and over-achieving sisters. His favorite activities include farting, cuddling, and vomiting. He prefers sleeping as close to me as possible and loathes naps. He's helped us reach our health deductible before February so he's productive and efficient (and maybe an over achiever after all). He is Edie's baby twin minus the auburn hair. He makes you work for his laughs and smiles.

Focusing on these seemingly unimportant details has become my lifeline during a time where I feel as though I am drowning.

Drowning while holding a baby. Or three.  

I am touched out and overstimulated by the constant noise. I am overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of raising decent humans and underwhelmed by the process of doing so. The worry I feel on a daily basis is all-consuming while the day-to-day logistics of keeping three kids on their different schedules is exhausting. So, I not only want to focus on these seemingly unimportant details; I NEED to focus on them. Otherwise, I fear that I will lose sight of why this job is such a beautiful one and I'll begin to resent it.

Life, within the scope of motherhood, feels rather impossible right now. There is only surviving the day and counting the hours until bedtime. There is washing bottles and wiping asses and cleaning up spit-up off of the couch. There are weaning hormones that make you weepy and sad for no reason. There is exhaustion and there is begging your toddler to take a nap because you're tired of being yelled at. There is cleaning up mess after mess and opening forty-seven bags of cheddar bunnies and doing all of the things you said you'd never do. It frequently feels like a tsunami of things that will never get done and, along with that tsunami, comes with it a current of guilt for not doing all of the things and for doing them all well. Motherhood is a repetitive slap in the face even when you see it coming. 

But as impossible as it all feels right now, it’s a chapter of my life that I never want to lose memory of. I desperately want to remember how loved I am by my kids in the moments I deserve it the least. I want to remember the relief I feel when Joe pulls into the driveway after work because my team mate is home and I can’t do any of this without him. I want to remember the dinners with my girlfriends where we sit around a table, drinking wine, talking about how much we love our kids while also admitting that we're so happy to be away from them. I want to remember how intense all of the feelings that accompany this chapter are and how, in spite of where motherhood falls short, I've never felt more fulfilled or more sure of my place in the world.

Which is Marlo, Edie, and Knox' mom. 

And it is because of being their mom that during those times when I don’t feel like smiling or cuddling or playing, I do it anyway. Because any other option is unacceptable. When I struggle, I show my kids that life inevitably ebbs and flows and beauty lies within the resilience and graciousness we force ourselves to fight for. When I cry from emotional depletion and exhaustion, I get my shit together, apologize, and I show up. 

And showing up should be the only measure I use to judge the kind of mother I am. 

Not that time I lost my patience or raised my voice. Not whether I breastfed for a year or weaned after three months or formula fed from day one. Not if I let my kids eat goldfish for dinner. Not if my kid has perfect attendance. Not if my almost three year old still uses a paci because I just don’t want to fight that battle. Not if my house is perfectly styled or if there is a leftover macaroni noodle from dinner three nights ago. Not if I buy all the ugly plastic Fisher-Price shit instead of bougie organic wooden toys. Not the times I stuck my kids in front of the tv (including my infant) because I needed five minutes of not being touched. Not the ten pounds I can't lose. Not the home-cooked vegetable-heavy meals. Not the extracurricular activities. Not the PTA participation. 

Just showing up.

They're crazy. But they're my crazy. And I'm so thankful.

running thoughts in the middle of a final pregnancy

I know what you're thinking.... didn't she say last pregnancy last pregnancy? Yes, I did. But, in my defense, I did think Edie was my last baby. I was convinced our family was complete. At that point in time, I was also unable to see through the thick haziness that is sleep deprivation into a future that might possibly consist of more babies. I was wrong and I'm so glad that I was. 

This time is final final. Final final, as in, Joe is scheduled to make sure of it. In my mind, if I grow them, birth them, and feed them. I figure the least he can do is make sure we don't have any more of them. After all, a healthy marriage is all about balance. And knowing when to shut up and when to pour a glass of wine for your exhausted, stressed out wife. And when to grovel and when to apologize. Mostly, though, it's all about balance. And permanent birth control. 

We find out who the little human growing inside of me is this coming Monday. For some reason, I'm anxious as fuck about the possibility of it being a boy. I thought I really wanted a boy but now I'm not so sure that I'll be a good boy mom. The unknown is scary and the known feels like a safer bet. Plus, being a feisty broad gives me a one-up in raising feisty little broads. But raising a boy? How in the actual fuck am I supposed to do that when I have no idea how to be a boy? (It should be noted that Joe is hoping for another girl because boys scare the shit out of him, too.) 

My hair gets lighter during pregnancy. It's the weirdest damn thing. 

My boobs have tripled in size this pregnancy and it is supremely awesome. With Edie, they didn't get this big until the last few weeks or so which didn't bother me as much as it sucked for Joe. At that time, I was at the stage in pregnancy where I resented the shit out of his potent fertility for making me so miserably pregnant (rationale isn't a strong suit of mine while waddling and hormonal) that there wasn't a chance in hell I was letting him even remotely close enough to me to touch them. This time... well... let's just say he's enjoying the time when I'm not blaming him, and him entirely, for the mutant spawn I'm incubating.

For some (likely hormonally driven) reason, I thought white maternity jeans would be a good idea. They were not. 

Do you find it as unfortunate as I do that I don't really care for sweets while pregnant? It's like some cruel joke the universe has decided to play on me. "Here, mere mortal, thou shall crave this kale! Crave this green juice! Crave another avocado!" How about fuck you, Universe. 

My desire to nest has been fierce this pregnancy. I didn't really have it with the girls but this baby is giving me all the desire to create a new level of cozy in my home and plant all the flowers in all of the clay pots I can get my hands on. I wonder if my pre-baby self is tired of shaking her head in disgust yet?

Who's looking forward to being eight months pregnant during a southern humid summer while squeezing her huge ass into a spandex torture device?!?! ......CRICKETS. 

mothering + parenting + resentment

a photo of a common scene taken by Mo at an ungodly hour last Sunday morning. 

Even though loving my girls is the easiest thing I've ever done and even though mothering them has never been a conscious choice I've had to make, certain facets within the scope of mothering feel unnatural and require more work to continue to do from a place of love. 

One of those particular aspects I've found to be more of a struggle than others is the constant touching. For fuck's sake, I am always being touched. More specifically, I find that there is an ever-present lack of physical boundaries that exists between me and my children. Which, I acknowledge, is necessary. I know this is true because I've witnessed my own babe act out as a direct result of not getting enough physical attention. However, the constant touching against my will is relentless-- the need to touch me, to be touched, to hang onto my physical person in the face of resistence-- and those demands being made by my two tiny someones are currently getting the best of me.

Kids require physical closeness; physical affection and touch are necessities for their emotional development and mental health. Nobody needs to remind me of this which is why, I suppose, I feel like such a dick for wishing they'd just leave me the fuck alone for a goddamned minute. I don't want to do anything appallingly selfish like take a long soak in the tub or read an entire book beginning-to-end or drink wine at 2 in the afternoon... I just want to sleep without a tiny body beside me for a few nights. Hell, I'll even take one night. 

One would think that after over 4.5 years of motherhood (almost 5.5 if you count the portion of time where they grew inside of me), I'd be properly acclimated to what goes along with the territory. And, yet, I still struggle with some of the most primal and innate qualities I'm expected to exude as their caretaker. In spite of knowing that my babies aren't being needy to piss me off and in spite of my awareness that their desire for affection is vital to their overall well being, the introvert in me- that innate need to be alone and have physical distance in order to recharge- doesn't stop existing because another human exited my womb once or twice. It's unfair to have only been a mother for a fraction of the amount of time I've been able to dedicate to fulfilling my own needs and expect those needs to simply disappear. 

We're going through a particularly rough patch with the girls and their sleeping habits. Typically a dreamy sleeper (pun not intended), Mo has taken to crawling into our bed in the middle of the night, every single night. She is the opposite of an ideal bed companion and I have the bruises to prove it. Her little sister appears determined to kill us. As soon as one issue manages to resolve itself, another shoe immediately drops, causing another sleep disruption/regression, further annihilating any nocturnal progress we've managed to make from the last crisis. Teething, growth spurt, the plague, strep throat, stomach bug, and whateverthefuck else have taken their toll.

And I'll let you guess who she insists on needing at 12 a.m. And at 1. And at 3. And at 4. And again at 530 before the sun has even considered rising. And whose arms she refuses to let go of while awake. Joe attempts to retrieve her from her room at least once a night only for her to cower in the corner of her crib, recoiling from him as if he is Satan himself, all while screaming at the top of her lungs for yours truly. 

I should feel honored to be her safe place. I should be so thankful that when she is in need, I fill that void in a way that no one else can or should be given the joy of fulfilling. The weight of her body sinking into mine as soon as her head touches my shoulder should be a constant reminder of how great a gift motherhood is.

Instead, I find myself resenting the fuck out of it.  

I resent my husband for being able to escape her demands because motherhood demands things of me that fatherhood doesn't demand of him. I envy Joe for traveling to Europe (for work, mind you) because he will get a full week of uninterrupted sleep and be able to eat with both hands a meal cooked for him. I resent him for going on a well-earned and more-than-deserved trip to Vegas with his buddies at the end of his weeklong work trip while I'm deep in the valley of struggle, sleep-deprived, and without anyone to bitch to. I resent Edie for what she can't help. I resent Marlo because, clearly, Edie's sleep habits (or lack, thereof) are punishment for her being an enigma who somehow managed 12-13 uninterrupted hours a night from the age of eight weeks old without any form of sleep training whatsoever. More than anything, I resent myself for feeling as though I am suffering from familial claustrophobia and blaming the people I love the most for its' oppression because that is not the mother I promised myself I'd be.

However, it's the parent I'm proving to be.

The hour of the day or night does not make exceptions for how undeniably unfair and undoubtedly unreasonable it is for me to feel this way about my family. However, any capacity of struggle, and giving a voice to that struggle, is wholly valid- especially if merely acknowledging it is what helps me look beyond it.

Sleep deprivation may be responsible for bringing out the worst in me as a mom/wife/person in this particularly challenging season of parenthood. But who I am as a person and my inherent needs as an individual would struggle with this specific motherhood requisite with or without any extenuating circumstances; the sleep depravation is merely serving to compound my ability (read: inability) to grapple with it.

I think the root of this is the dichotomy that exists between what it means to mother and what it means to parent. Mothering is the easy part. Mothering is loving them, protecting them, and wanting what is best for them always as if their survival is vitally necessary to secure your own. Parenting is actually doing all of the hard shit that being a mother demands of you. Parenting is doing what often feels like the most unnatural thing you've ever done. Parenting involves telling my own needs to wait- that they don't matter quite as much- while I cater to those who matter far more than my own selfishness. 

But it is hard and the looming consequences of me not being able to pull my shit together are so goddamned heavy. It's so much harder than people warn you about. They only cloud the reality of parenting with the goodness of mothering. Rightfully so, of course, because the goodness of mothering is overwhelmingly satisfying and taking it on is, by far, the best decision I have ever made and will ever make in my lifetime. But parenting? Parenting makes me question if I'm cut out for it. Parenting breeds an almost constant presence of self-doubt and defeat all allows it to flourish. But the truth is that parenting is no harder than mothering because, ultimately, parenting may be what is actively drowning me but what did I expect blindly swimming in the vast ocean of mothering? 

I'm hoping that my experience is not a unique one and that there is an underlying universal truth to what I'm experiencing. I'm hopeful that being a good mother isn't contingent on the absence of feelings such as these. 

Otherwise, I worry I'm fucked. 

we've come a very long way, Mo...

"Mom. I have to tell you what happened. Today in early drop-off, a boy in another class hit Edie Cooper in the head and then he pushed her down. He wanted what she was playing with and after he hit her and made her cry, he took it from her! I got so mad at him and ran over to my sister asked Edie Cooper if she was okay because she was crying really hard and I think she was sad because he took her toy. I got angry and yelled at him because you can't hit my sister! But don't worry, I took care of it and made sure she was okay because I'm her big sister and it's my job to protect her and make her feel better and make sure people don't take her toys. I don't like that boy very much anymore though because if you're not nice to my sister, I can't be your friend. Did I do the right thing, mama?"