I’m cooked. I’m overdone. I’m totally and completely wrecked. Life isn’t all roses over here in the Brimming household. In fact, it’s been pretty damn thorny.
These past two weeks have been beyond exhausting. My husband traveled for work for a week, leaving me solo and on round-the-clock care of my kiddo. We did well, but it left me with pretty thin reserves.
We then (brilliantly) spent our weekend cleaning out our entire home in an attempt to declutter and organize aka now we are just living among the piles we have yet to decide what to do with and I am becoming more eye-twitchy with every day.
On top of it all, my sweet kiddo launched this week off with a bad virus that has had him feverish, hive-y and puke-y, all while his two-year-old molars make their stunning (read: screaming) debut.
One of those things would be enough to have me frazzled. I’m learning, but I don’t cope well when my routine is so turned on top of itself. I don’t cope well when I don’t sleep. I don’t cope well when my kiddo isn’t well. I don’t cope well when I’m so worried about my kiddo’s health and managing the vomit clean-up and fever spikes and doctor phone calls.
I don’t cope well when after taking fervent, attentive, nurturing care for days on end, my kiddo seems to store up all his smiles and sweetness for Daddy at the end of the day, leaving my husband looking at me like maybe I was exaggerating about how hard it actually was? It’s not his fault, I’d probably do the same thing (I’m sure I have, actually). But it still leaves me feeling like:
What ends up happening when such a confluence of events occurs is that I manage and cope right up until I break. I give until I’m all used up. I push until my anxiety has been so shoved into overdrive that I simply can’t breathe very well. I haven’t had a panic attack in years, and I was dangerously close to one this morning. This is when I know I’ve pushed too far.
I know I should cope better. I cognitively understand that I should implement more self-care, that it’s better for me, it’s better for my kid, it’s better! However, there are simply some circumstances that don’t allow for it.
I know I should be able to keep it together because I’m an adult and this is my job. But there are some moments at any job, even motherhood (especially motherhood?), where you just need to fall apart.
I guess my point is, being a mom is really hard sometimes and I feel like it’s important to say it in these times when it is and feels especially true. Otherwise, we are lead to believe that no one suffers but ourselves. That we’re weak or incapable or doing it wrong if we are having a hard time. I don’t believe that to be true. There’s nothing wrong with struggling. I love being a mom and it’s also hard as fuck.
I know I’ll feel better once I sleep. I know I’ll feel better once I have some downtime. I know I’ll feel better once I get back into my writing rhythm.
Until then, wine.
p.s. This was supposed to just be a simple explanation post about why I haven’t been writing more and it got away from me a bit. I’ve been thrashing in this sea of worry and exhaustion with very little capacity left over to shower, let alone write in any sort of coherent or interesting way. So I hope this made sense. Thanks for reading.