Sometimes I find myself dancing. Slowly. Cheek to squishy cheek with a living doll. And I honestly don’t know who it is meant to comfort more — Evie tends to fart if you hold her too tightly, and for all I know, that’s her love language.
No worries — I never let ill-timed booty burps get in the way of our boogie. Even when the music skips.
The sun is currently peeking through the window and I am holding a baby banana toy and trying to type quietly. No one should be up at such an ugly hour. But I am. Because kids.
Lately, I let the tears fall. Because I am so happy. Because I am sad. Because I can actually see the color of exhaustion. Because I don’t know how I am supposed to be feeling. Because other people like to tell me.
I am pretty good at not comparing myself to others. I don’t like to intentionally hurt myself, which happens when you join that club. Because everyone is doing it better. On no sleep. With twenty kids. They just adopted a monkey. They are super green. Their TV doesn’t turn on. And they don’t have streaks in their makeup or a dirty kitchen or booze in their coffee mug.
I have never gotten to be that mom. Just patiently waiting my turn.
But I have to know… I must know… How!? How do you function on such little sleep and still smile at the barista? Or go to work with actual adult humans? Or operate a pencil sharpener correctly?
How do you make it work? The balanced life thing? And the “not feeling constantly nauseous” thing? Because I think my mom thing is broken. I would return it but the baby ate the receipt.
A close friend suggested “tidying up” when I feel like this. I am totally not the person that is going to feel better after I clean the bathroom. I’ll do it. Eventually. But not to feel better. Just to ensure my husband doesn’t bitch and in case I need to throw a picture on IG of my tot brushing his teeth (ha — he doesn’t brush his teeth).
Instead, I tell my children they are extraordinary. Constantly. Because they are. Because it’s a fun word to say. Because I am hoping one day they will say it back to me. Because it doesn’t require much energy and it’s kinder than taking away all their toys or screaming, “NO! MY BLUE TRUCK!” right back in their crusty little faces.
I guess what I am trying to say is I need a hug. Because lately motherhood is heavy and confusing and the best thing I have ever allowed myself to be a part of. And I hate that I have resorted to bitching on a barely used blog.
But. I am trying. To sleep. And do all the other life things one needs to do. Safely, without a bra.
I’ll be 30 next week. I have two children, dirty hair, and a book to finish. All I want to do is sleep and binge watch Narcos with my husband.
And I want you to know I’m okay. Because you seem worried.
I have all these fantastic plans; I am just running out of places to hide them.
If I could just sleep a little longer… or at all… maybe, I could write the things and then you could read the things and then all the things would be happy and the sleep would come back.
Insert successful parenting pic. Don’t write that, Britany.