The deepest fear of mothers is that we’re not good enough. I think I could speak for every mother the world over by saying that at the core of 'motherhood worry' is the fear of inadequacy. That is why new mothers thrive on mommy groups. We absolutely need to be around other mothers so we can compare what we are doing to what they are doing. The questions that underscore all new motherhood discussion topics are: Am I making the right choices for my child? How do I measure up? Am I encouraging development as much as everyone else? Am I feeding my child the right foods? Am I reading to her enough? Am I doing the right bedtime routine? Am I Playing with her enough? Am I letting her watch too much TV?
For some mothers, parenting is the first job we’ve had with no boss, no quarterly report; no professor or report card to tell us how we’re doing. All we have is the child; the product of our labors, which is why when their behavior isn’t as shining as we’d like it to be, or they’re not sleeping as much as we want them to, or they’ll only eat crackers and cereal for days on end, we feeling like we, as parents, are getting an F—on the verge of being fired.
The exhaustion I have felt lately is an exhaustion unparalleled by anything I’ve experienced in my life, childbirth included. Well, okay after Twila’s birth I felt about this exhausted. The exhaustion is a full-body tired. It’s not my brain so much, that is just the usual mushy-mom brain I’ve grown accustomed to these past four years. But it’s the bone-tired exhaustion that is new this past week.
My brother in law was remarried last weekend and weddings are exhausting. Maybe especially when the groom used to be married to your sister. It was a weekend full of festivities: family dinners, golfing, the wedding, and a couple of nights at a friend’s cabin with my husband’s whole family. By and large it was a very pleasant weekend, restful and fun. But since our return on Tuesday, I have been absolutely, stunningly weary.
I am so tired; I’m klutzy, dropping things, knocking my water over, my wine, breaking glasses, running into doorjambs. I have been short-tempered and volatile with Twila; grouchy, forgetful. In short, I’ve been feeling pregnant. But after four negative pregnancy tests and the realization that it would take a miracle to get pregnant with all the breastfeeding I’m doing, I had to face the reality that I am just plain tired.
I’m tired and maybe that is reasonable for a mother of two girls neither of whom sleep through the night. Maybe I should be tired when I spent the last weekend shuttling my children all over the great state of Minnesota and spent this weekend being a single mom while Ryan was away on business for four nights in a row.
I mean what else could I be when I have a three year old constantly demanding that I play with her and then telling me I’m not doing it right when I do try to play? Twila is the consummate task master when it comes to creative play. I don’t know whether to cry or laugh. Sometimes I do both, but this past week, I have been closer to tears than laughter.
“Okay mom,” Twila snaps as I sit on her floor, infant between my legs, trying to be a good sport and engage in whatever puzzle or craft she is doing, “how about we play that you’re the dad and I’m the mom and this is our baby and I just had her today and you ask how old she is and I say, ‘honey, she was just born’ and you say ‘oh yeah’ and then you go and make me some food and bring it to me in bed because her grandma is coming over today to meet her for the first time!”
Me: “Okay.”
Twila: “Should we do that? Should we play that?”
Me: “Sounds good.”
Twila: “Okay, mom. Okay, let’s play!”
Me: “Okay.”
Twila:“Let’s play that right now.”
Me: “Okay!”
Twila: “Go ahead mom!”
Me: “Oh, honey what a sweet baby we have—“
Twila: “No mom, that’s not what you’re supposed to say! You say, ‘how old is she?’”
Me: “Oh right, okay: how old is she?”
Twila: “Well, she’s—actually mom, let’s play a different game, you say…”
And on and on it goes. She has an insatiable desire to “play” which never means reading, coloring or doing puzzles. She wants me to engage in imaginative play with her and before I was a mother that would not have sounded like such an outlandish and abhorrent request.
I love my daughters. I love them more than anything. But I don’t want to play. I don’t want to be directed in creative play games that always involve me reciting line after line that she has masterfully pieced together, never quite matching her expectations for the dialogue and therefore being critiqued and redirected over and over and over again until I cry uncle and say I have to go do some work/ fold some laundry/ make a call/ take a valium. At which time she attacks me with the charge: “you never play with me!” leaving me tired, irritable, and guilty.
And my deepest fears as a mother bubble and boil below the surface making me even crankier, more irritable and guilty.
Maybe I’m not a good enough mother. My fears whisper. Maybe I am being selfish for wanting to spend my time writing and not engaging my daughter in ever-more creative and brain stimulating play. Maybe I am letting her down. Maybe I will always regret not appreciating this time in their lives more.
And there is no brilliant insight that goes with these observations, just the desire and the hope that I will find a balance some day with my girls. One on which we can all feel content, cared for, appreciated, engaged, stimulated and peaceful.
For some mothers, parenting is the first job we’ve had with no boss, no quarterly report; no professor or report card to tell us how we’re doing. All we have is the child; the product of our labors, which is why when their behavior isn’t as shining as we’d like it to be, or they’re not sleeping as much as we want them to, or they’ll only eat crackers and cereal for days on end, we feeling like we, as parents, are getting an F—on the verge of being fired.
The exhaustion I have felt lately is an exhaustion unparalleled by anything I’ve experienced in my life, childbirth included. Well, okay after Twila’s birth I felt about this exhausted. The exhaustion is a full-body tired. It’s not my brain so much, that is just the usual mushy-mom brain I’ve grown accustomed to these past four years. But it’s the bone-tired exhaustion that is new this past week.
My brother in law was remarried last weekend and weddings are exhausting. Maybe especially when the groom used to be married to your sister. It was a weekend full of festivities: family dinners, golfing, the wedding, and a couple of nights at a friend’s cabin with my husband’s whole family. By and large it was a very pleasant weekend, restful and fun. But since our return on Tuesday, I have been absolutely, stunningly weary.
I am so tired; I’m klutzy, dropping things, knocking my water over, my wine, breaking glasses, running into doorjambs. I have been short-tempered and volatile with Twila; grouchy, forgetful. In short, I’ve been feeling pregnant. But after four negative pregnancy tests and the realization that it would take a miracle to get pregnant with all the breastfeeding I’m doing, I had to face the reality that I am just plain tired.
I’m tired and maybe that is reasonable for a mother of two girls neither of whom sleep through the night. Maybe I should be tired when I spent the last weekend shuttling my children all over the great state of Minnesota and spent this weekend being a single mom while Ryan was away on business for four nights in a row.
I mean what else could I be when I have a three year old constantly demanding that I play with her and then telling me I’m not doing it right when I do try to play? Twila is the consummate task master when it comes to creative play. I don’t know whether to cry or laugh. Sometimes I do both, but this past week, I have been closer to tears than laughter.
“Okay mom,” Twila snaps as I sit on her floor, infant between my legs, trying to be a good sport and engage in whatever puzzle or craft she is doing, “how about we play that you’re the dad and I’m the mom and this is our baby and I just had her today and you ask how old she is and I say, ‘honey, she was just born’ and you say ‘oh yeah’ and then you go and make me some food and bring it to me in bed because her grandma is coming over today to meet her for the first time!”
Me: “Okay.”
Twila: “Should we do that? Should we play that?”
Me: “Sounds good.”
Twila: “Okay, mom. Okay, let’s play!”
Me: “Okay.”
Twila:“Let’s play that right now.”
Me: “Okay!”
Twila: “Go ahead mom!”
Me: “Oh, honey what a sweet baby we have—“
Twila: “No mom, that’s not what you’re supposed to say! You say, ‘how old is she?’”
Me: “Oh right, okay: how old is she?”
Twila: “Well, she’s—actually mom, let’s play a different game, you say…”
And on and on it goes. She has an insatiable desire to “play” which never means reading, coloring or doing puzzles. She wants me to engage in imaginative play with her and before I was a mother that would not have sounded like such an outlandish and abhorrent request.
I love my daughters. I love them more than anything. But I don’t want to play. I don’t want to be directed in creative play games that always involve me reciting line after line that she has masterfully pieced together, never quite matching her expectations for the dialogue and therefore being critiqued and redirected over and over and over again until I cry uncle and say I have to go do some work/ fold some laundry/ make a call/ take a valium. At which time she attacks me with the charge: “you never play with me!” leaving me tired, irritable, and guilty.
And my deepest fears as a mother bubble and boil below the surface making me even crankier, more irritable and guilty.
Maybe I’m not a good enough mother. My fears whisper. Maybe I am being selfish for wanting to spend my time writing and not engaging my daughter in ever-more creative and brain stimulating play. Maybe I am letting her down. Maybe I will always regret not appreciating this time in their lives more.
And there is no brilliant insight that goes with these observations, just the desire and the hope that I will find a balance some day with my girls. One on which we can all feel content, cared for, appreciated, engaged, stimulated and peaceful.
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