Sometimes Being A Mom Isn't all it's Cracked Up to Be
Sometimes being a mom isn't all it's cracked up to be.
Late nights, early mornings, and 700 tuck-back-ins in between.
I rest and nap because I have a partner who knows the meaning of partnership, but I am tired in my bones. Not the tired I was during her infanthood when I realized that "falling" to sleep is a real visceral experience; that when you are so tired you have the sensation of falling, arms flailing, into the dark abyss of unconsciousness.
But still, I am tired.
Long weekends mean activities galore and keeping up with them despite your heartfelt desire to just sit, binge on Netflix, food, and anything within arm's reach.
When you're just tired in your core. Your soul. When your puffy eyes reject the glare of sunlight. When you feel vampire-like.
I do a lot with my daughter because I want her to experience the world and play and laugh and enjoy her life. I also do a lot with my daughter because of the hangover of the thick fog of my postpartum depression days when I had to be doing something, ANYTHING, so as not to fall deeper down the rabbit-hole of "I can't do this," "I won't do this," "this is a horrifying new reality and I won't stand for it."
We run because I ran. I had to. To survive.
Running leaves me exhausted and vulnerable; so sure that today is the day that I'll fall apart for good.
Why am I so afraid of my own uselessness, my own "out of my mindness" when I have been down that path before?
I suppose when we are tired and raw and ravaged from or day-today and all the not so fun "extras" that come with being parents, we lament. We fret. We find ways to make the precarious stability of our lives more unsteady.
It's not new that moms complain about fatigue but it is also a reality that it is a universal, shared deeply felt experience that bonds us. Unites us. Across all divides.
It is the only thing that comforts me in times when I have nothing left, no more to give, that other mothers have survived.
And so will I.