Hello lovelies, It is well documented that I lose my shit on a regular basis. So much so, I now get daily messages from my girl friends asking if I am doing ok haha. Thank you, by the way, your empathy is much appreciated, particularly when I find myself once again locked in the toilet ‘having a word’ with myself or sneaking a chocolate bar! Talking myself down from smashing plates in the kitchen and banging my head on the floor repeatedly (this often seems so very tempting not sure my neighbours would agree though).
Oh, how we chuckle about the shit that got real during the day. The teenagers raging hormone tornado, the plate of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches left on the floor that I stood on with bare feet, the general narkiness and testing rainy-day dramas of my very bored nine year old. It is all rather amusing.
Except when it’s not…
Sometimes, it’s not funny at all. Some days, I don’t feel the urge to poke my own eyes out, scream into a pillow, or drink some (a lot) wine. I don’t feel the urge to do any of those things because some days I actually feel quite desperate to understand the truth. There are days I truly don’t know what I’m doing I’m like a little lost lamb.
I don’t know what to do..
I have two children who really try and push me to my absolute limit. And I don’t always cope all that well. I joke all the time that I’m ‘not cut out’ for this shit (motherhood) but there are days when I seriously worry……is this true?.
I have plodded along through life being relatively good at stuff. I was good at school (maths homework excluded). I am studying my much coveted First Class Honours degree at University. I worked in a job I loved and did well at it. Then I had kids and Oh my good gracious!! I am most definitely not sailing through this one.
Sometimes, when I’m losing my temper, or lie to my youngest daughter that it’s going to rain because I can’t face another trip to that bluddy playground, or wishing the hours until bedtime would just Hurry the hell up!! I really do panic that there’s something wrong with me.
Why don’t I enjoy being at home??? Why do I find it so bloody hard??
Then I start to wonder … do other mums feel like this? Do other mums struggle? Do other mums find the simultaneous whining of their children so bad they just join in? So that everyone is whining in the bathroom at the same time. Fuck knows what my neighbours must think (if you’re reading this please don’t call the social services). In those moments of doubt, a dark cloud descends, pushes down on my shoulders and I panic.
I’m so crap at being a parent. I can’t do it…
I soon snap myself out of it. Because that moment in the bathroom, and the white lies about the weather, and the wanting to kill someone in the supermarket… well, those things are not the measure of a mum. All too often on those dark days I am measuring myself against mums in parenting magazines. Mums on twitter who #lovelife. I will always fail against those mums. And then I think what a bloody stupid measurement those mothers don’t exist! The ones we see on tv DON’T exist!!
The only measure I need is my daughters!!
How are they doing?
On Monday night, Hana fell asleep during her dinner and I sat with her for ten minutes just stroking her hair. And she smiled and let out a little giggle. It was probably a dream but it was still a beautiful smile.
Then I popped in to say goodnight to her big sister and instead of just saying goodnight, I got under the covers and we talked about all things teenagers. I was amazed at just how grown up she is getting. She truly is a proper young woman. I am totally amazed at how smart, funny and happy they both are.
So, if a measure of a mum is how well her kids are doing, how happy they are, how loved they feel; well then I’m doing a fantastic job!
So you see it is okay to have those shit days when you’re clearly not fine at all. When you’re clearly not coping. When you want to maybe even divorce your children (can you do that? Asking for a friend?) because they have self-activated assehole mode again.
I like to call these my frazzle days.
Granted some of my frazzles are a darn sight more frazzled than I’d like, and if I could eliminate all frazzles I totally would.
But parenting frazzles don’t make you a bad parent. They make you a real person.
Frazzle away my lovelies.
Because believe me you are doing just fine.