Ugh, this. To be honest, I’ve never really felt like a failure at parenting. I always thought I was doing a pretty good job at keeping my little humans alive and fairly unscathed.
… only to be hit with a wave of guilt. Why does it matter if I share my food? Is it really a big deal if my drink has backwash that I can’t even really see but I know is there? Remember, that meme on Facebook? The one that reminds me to cherish these moments because some day I won’t have anyone to love me?
It’s such a stormy cloud over my life as a mother. That threat in my face whispering lonliness and abandonment. I want my children to love me and they do; right now they looovvve me soo much. With all of their little, needy, sticky, clingy hands hearts. They love me so much that I literally cannot sit down and rest for more than five minutes at a time before I’m called on to find a crown, slice an apple, watch a trick on the trampoline, wipe a butt, fill a glass with water, make a sandwich, and a million other requests that come one.at.a.time.
One. at. a. time.
But that picture up there? The one that reminds me my children were not only created from me, they were created for me, specifically. Their needs are perfectly matched to my ability to provide. It gives me new energy. Not enough to stop writing this blog and wipe the snot dripping from my daughter’s nose, but enough to do it before it reaches her mouth, I suppose.
So, yeah, I will take that chocolate bar from World Market and eat it in the freaking shower. And I will have that glass of whiskey after I put the kids to bed a little earlier than normal. Because I am tired. And I deserve to treat myself with anything that my kids aren’t allowed to have gives me a new energy for tomorrow.
Because tomorrow will come with another set of demands that just happen to be woven into the fabric of motherhood that adorns me. It’s a nice fabric that nicely conceals snot and maybe the toddler’s breakfast.
Amen.