Today was a bad day. I yelled, lost my temper, and made poor choices. I was angry at the world, and angry at myself. Today I felt like a failure.
It started first thing in the morning. I had forgotten to wash Molly’s favorite shirt, the purple one with sequins. As soon as she woke up, she started whining and pouting about it. “Just wear a different shirt,” I snapped, hurrying around the kitchen making breakfasts and lunches. “No,” she replied, bottom lip trembling, “I want my purple shirt. You said you’d wash it!” No amount of cajoling could shake the scowl from her face. I sent her off to school under a cloud of righteous five-year-old anger.
It was Andy’s third tantrum of the morning that tipped me over the edge. I felt depressed and unappreciated. All I wanted to do was lie in bed and cry, but I couldn’t; Andy’s diaper had to be changed, the laundry had to be done, and a million other chores hung around my neck like an anchor. There was no time for me. I was exhausted, I was spent. I had no more patience, no more love to give. I didn’t want to spend time with Andy; I didn’t want to color or paint or play with toys. I just wanted to be alone. A wave of guilt washed over me as I held back tears. Shouldn’t I be happy? Shouldn’t I be grateful that I’m able to stay at home and watch my kids grow? I didn’t feel grateful. I felt sad and angry and hopeless. I was one dirty diaper away from a tear-filled, snot-dripping, blubbering meltdown.
I didn’t know motherhood would be this hard. I didn’t know that some days would be a minute-by-minute countdown until the kids were in bed, so I could finally claw my way back to sanity. I didn’t know how utterly frustrated I would feel every single day. If someone had told me I’d be picking up dirty socks and Cheerios, and scraping baby drool off the couch forever, I wouldn’t have believed them. I can’t remember the me from before I had kids; she’s a ghost, a spectre found only in photo albums. I miss her.
My mother must’ve had days like this. I was a whiny, pessimistic child that complained a lot. “Some day you’ll have kids,” she’d tell me, “then you’ll know.” Twenty-five years later, and she couldn’t be more right.
Tomorrow will be better. It won’t be perfect, but it’ll be better. Molly’s favorite shirt will be clean, and Andy might have fewer tantrums. I’ll pick up the dirty socks from the floor and sweep away the Cheerios. Today was just a bad day, and that’s okay. Life is imperfect and chaotic, and today it got the better of me. Tomorrow I’ll climb out of bed, rub the sleep out of my eyes, and try again.
