There are days when mothering is challenging. Beyond challenging. Frustrating, maddening, enraging. There are days when mothering, in a word, sucks.
Today was one of those days for me.
It was the kind of day that doesn’t (didn’t) happily tie up into a Hallmark moment with a hug and pithy acknowledgments of lessons learned, all forgiven, smiles and light. It was the kind of day that, despite my best efforts, a calm voice, reasonable consequences, timeliness, a homemade (and early) dinner, individualized attention, and limited screen time, ended with tears and recriminations.
I’m not having a HuffPo parenting moment wherein I spend the next 200 words convincing both of us that my parenting is perfect, my children are really angels, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. That shit’s not real, yo. (Stop laughing.)
Bedtime stretched to nearly two hours through delaying and not-enough-mom-to-go-round. A few years ago, I did a presentation about our school’s PTA that used only numbers. If I were to present my numbers for today, they might be something like:
- 4 (number of individualized, one-on-one conversations I had with children about their days / their problems)
- 2 (hours it took me to complete bedtime routine)
- 1 (mother, clearly lacking ElastiGirl qualities to be everywhere at once)
- 3 (children)
- 2 (number of floors with bedrooms on them)
- 3 (number of bedrooms where children sleep)
- 5 (number of chapters of books read out loud to children)
- 2 (number of books read out loud to children)
- 6 (average number of times I had to ask child to do something before s/he did it)
- 5 (average number of times a child questioned/ pushed back on my request)
You get the picture.
My mothering is done for the day (I hope.) for I’m going to sleep.