The 21st Century SAHM

There are days on this motherhood journey that end with a feeling of joy and peace in your heart. You know you did well. Your kids are loved and feel loved. You are proud of yourself as a mother.

Today was not one of those days for me.

I know you’ve had days like this. Days when you wake up with a screaming headache. Wake up with it. Yeah, so the day is going to suck and you know it by 7 a.m.

You’ve organized a play date for the 1st grader because there’s no school today. And having an extra kid in the house is a good idea…

And of course the 2-year old still lives with you. And while you keep saying things like, “He’s really turning a corner!” you realize, on days like this, just how much he is nowhere any corner other than the the one you want to bang your head into.

So you spend your morning trying to keep #2 and #3 away from #1 and his friend, as he’s allowed a play date in peace. But damn your head freaking hurts. So when the 2-year old insists on also “building Legos” with his older brother, of course he’s going to knock over his sister’s princess castle. And you know what comes next—sheer hysteria. Which feels so good on the backs of your eyes today. The screaming, “Anna and Elsa fell off! He broke it! It’s ruined!” Like tiny men are stabbing your eyeballs with miniature pitchforks each time she wails.

Once the catastrophe of the ice castle is remedied, everyone is hungry (because they haven’t eaten in 13 minutes). And your choices are shit, clearly. Bananas, apples, raisins, cheese, cereal, granola bars… Ugh. Mommy. There’s nothing else?

After the play date is over, Santa arrives in the form of Grandma and Grandpa, who whisk the remaining children (the other mom would only take her kid home—WTF?) off for lunch and a movie. You’ve never been so thankful for anything in your entire life.

You spend the few hours of peace on the couch, feeling like you’re nursing a hangover, yet you did nothing nearly as fun as getting drunk the night before. Upon their return, the searing headache remains.

You can see the exhaustion in Grandma and Grandpa’s faces, and you know. You know how much work your kids are. So you send them home to recover from the insanity and look at the clock. 4:00. For hours to go. You can do this.

By 4:11, the 2-year old is melting down because you’ve said no to his 87th request for fruit snacks. You are sitting at the table, trying with every fiber of your being to practice letters with your 5-year old, the poor middle child who is perpetually lost in the shuffle of the circus that is your household. She’s not willing to sit and do “school work” very often, so you want desperately to capitalize on her cooperation right now. But you need the 2-year old to calm the fuck down for a minute and Lord God if you take this headache away I promise I’ll do anything. I’ll give up my new expensive jeans I got for Christmas. I’ll give up alcohol for a week. A month! No, a week. But I will! Please God, throw Mama a bone.

Around 5:00, husband calls to remind you to get the tax stuff together—something you’ve been saying you’ll do for a week and haven’t. On your way upstairs to find the paperwork, you pass a pile of laundry so tall it is toppling over and will undoubtedly take 2-3 trips to carry downstairs. You remember the 7-year old’s basketball uniform is still in there, dirty, and needs to be washed by Saturday’s game. You had intended on doing laundry today. Why didn’t that happen again?

6:00. Dinner. What are we having? They ask in not-very-excited-nor-appreciative-for-Mommy’s cooking-voices.

4 minutes into the mundane dinner that they are forcing down, the 2-year old declares he’s done and takes off into the playroom, making a beeline for sister’s crafts, which he is NOT allowed to touch. More hysteria.

Oh. My. Gosh. Can this day end.

Despite skipping nap, it takes the 2-year old over an hour to settle into bed. This hour is spent demanding more songs, stories, water, and his blanket fixed 893 times.

You rush through stories with the other two, because quite honestly, you’re barely hanging on. Which sucks. You know it. They know it.

They’ve grown tired of hearing Mommy has a headache.

Finally, the day is done. Not a day that ends in joy and peace in your heart. Not a day to feel immensely proud of your motherhood skills. But a day you survived. Everyone is still here. Everyone is safe. Everyone has a full belly. Go to sleep now, Mommy. Tomorrow when you wake up, your headache will be gone. And it will be a new day. A day that very well could end in peace, and joy.

Ha! That 2-year still lives there. Are you kidding?