- My jaw was hurting, sore as if I had been vigorously chewing penny gum all day. I felt my heart sink a little, figuring there was really only one explanation for the pain I felt there. How many times had I clenched my jaw, biting back vehement words, clamping my mouth shut lest my frustrations pour forth in a rushing current of emotions spent and destroy everything in their path, like a broken damn eroding the soil away. I was mildly relieved I had not unloaded my anger on those around me, and thanked God for that much, knowing He had to be responsible for keeping the heat of my words inside me instead of them spreading like a wildfire burning my poor children, but somehow they still burned. They had charred my insides and left me feeling deflated over the furious thoughts that bounced around inside my brain.
- Most days I’m good. I’m golden, on top of my game, cool as a cucumber, chillin like a villain, the awesome mom who holds everyone when they want to be held, has a calm, collected approach to all things, and lets the frustrations roll off my back like water off a duck’s back. Well, most days may be an exaggeration. Actually, some times I’m like that, like maybe 15% of the time. In all reality, the majority of the time I’m just maintaining. I mean I get by. I don’t kill the children, and I even manage to not scar them physically or emotionally. When they, well, basically when they act like children I’m able to take a deep breath and keep moving. Some days I yell more than I intended to. Some days I fall asleep to my own thoughts of how I wish I would have handled something differently. I don’t beat myself up, but pray for God’s strength, and I fall asleep with my last thought being one of thankfulness for their little lives, and the blessed fact that God chose me to mother them here on earth. Like most jobs there’s good days and bad days. I keep going because the paycheck is really good. I couldn’t quit if I wanted to, and realize that’s a good thing after all. Even on the tough days I feel like I handled them pretty good, and am always eager to give it a go the next day, learning from my mistakes, and feeling motivated to continue my journey of raising tiny humans for future mankind. Today wasn’t most days though. It was anything but. From the start I felt on edge, like I was standing on a tight rope and had forgotten my balance pole, and would plummet at any moment. Every single thing they did bothered me, got on my nerves, under my skin. Every. Single. Thing. I felt like the walls were closing in on me as I tripped over toys, stepped on pieces of discarded food in the floor, or tried to do something on my own. It seemed like there were tiny people under my feet at all times and they just kept repeating, “momma, momma, momma.” I wanted to scream. I actually thought at one moment, as my three year old whined about something irrelevant, I’m going to punch you in the face. Good Lord! How could I want to punch my child?! I didn’t! But at that split second, that moment, honestly, I thought it. I wanted to walk out the door and not come back. I wanted a vacation by myself, or I even thought of letting my husband tag along. But no children. I was done. I couldn’t handle another word, another cry, another “can you get me ______.”
- I didn’t run away. I didn’t punch my three year old either. I did cry. Just a little. I talked to my husband, spilling my frustrations, ones he already knew existed just by being in proximity to me. He told me it was okay, that I was okay, and it was okay to feel like I did. And then, I was okay. I was watching a Mickey Mouse Christmas special with my daughter today, and Goofy’s son was questioning the existence of Santa Clause. I thought of how ridiculous the whole story really is, a man traveling across the world in one night, on a sleigh with flying reindeer, delivering toys to kids all over the world. But kids everywhere believe in him. They believe it because we tell them it’s so, and they have faith in what we say. Mom and Dad know everything, right? Well, until they’re teenagers. Then Mom and Dad don’t know squat. While Santa isn’t real, and opinions may vary on telling your children he is, it truly is magical. It’s magical the way they believe, the child-like belief that what they’re told is true. I knew I could learn a thing or two from that. My Father, my God, He’s told me this is what He has for me, this motherhood thing. He gave me the gift of these children, and He knows I can handle it with a beautiful grace He’s placed on my life. He knows I can do this crazy, challenging, stressful, but rewarding job. He gave it to me because He knew I was able. Some days won’t be sunshine and sweet flowers. Some days will be storm clouds and raging thunder. Some days I won’t get it right, but I won’t get it wrong either. Some days I’ll want to quit, but not every day. Some days I’ll cry, but more often I’ll laugh. Some days I’ll feel like my mom’s old tea kettle, just ready to scream as the pressure and steam make my top pop open to release it all, but then I’ll be removed from the heat. Then I’ll be okay. Some days I won’t, but it will still be okay. God gave me a job knowing I was able, and I believe I am too, even if I don’t always feel that way. Like today. Tomorrow is a new day, and God is faithful.
That is all 🙂
Ruthie Young says
Amen! It’s tough some days, but you are honest and are a great mom!
brieann.rn@gmail.com says
Thank you 🙂
Charlie says
Some days! So thankful for the grace that carries us through.
brieann.rn@gmail.com says
Me too 🙂
Thank you.