As I sat in my son’s room, getting ready for that night’s bedtime routine, I burst out in tears.
I just couldn’t do this anymore.
It’s not that I didn’t love being a mom. I loved my son more than anything in the whole entire world. I loved him so much that it overwhelmed me. I spent my time thinking about him always. Was he saying enough words for his age? Is he getting sick? Should I be working on his socialization more? How many more clean PJs does he have before I need to do another load of laundry?
So many things raced through my head every second of every day that it was like a never-ending game of anxiety. On top of my constant thoughts and fears, I also worked full time at a semi-stressful job.
Everything was a constant balancing act.
Every morning, my routine went like this: Get up at 5 am, take shower, put on makeup, make sure I look halfway decent for the day (while actually looking like a mess). Put lunches together, pack up the car, let the dogs out to go to the bathroom, make sure dogs and cat have food and water, pray that the dogs don’t pee on something or destroy something while I’m gone, wake my son up (who never wants to get up at 6 am), get him changed and dressed, get him some food and milk, pack him in the car and leave, drop him off with childcare, and then finally go to work where I spend half the time thinking of my son and what he’s doing.
Once I leave the office: I rush back to pick up my son, run home (if I don’t need to run to the grocery store first to get food), try to spend some quality time with him (which to be honest only lasts 10-15 minutes), start making a semi-healthy dinner, unload the previous night’s dishes, chase after son while attempting to do previously listed tasks, serve dinner, eat, clean up after dinner, make lunches for the next day, try to spend some more time with my son, and then bedtime routine.
Which brings me back to the beginning of this story. Sitting in my son’s room, trying to keep it together but unable to do so.
I think about my life. Everything seems to be a disaster. My house is always a mess. I can never keep up with everything. I hardly spend time with my son as I’m always working and when I’m home, I’m so busy cleaning, cooking, and doing chores around the house. I feel like I am failing at everything. I’m not used to failing. I was a 4.0 student who never struggled. I have always been an excellent employee who got the job done in advance of the deadline with praise and raises.
But, as a Mom, I felt as though I was failing.
My son saw me crying (which unfortunately will leave me with a host of other feelings of guilt – should I let him see me cry like this? How will this affect him? Am I just being irrational right now?) – and he came up to me and gave me the biggest hug and kiss.
My feelings of failure began to vanish.
I may not always be doing the best at everything but that’s okay. I am human. So is everyone else. I can’t be one of those Pinterest or Instagram moms who has a picture-perfect life. Hell, I can hardly get my laundry folded before I need to wear it.
But, at least for now, I am with my son and happy.