I Love Being His Mom. I Don’t Always Love Being a Mom.

Two things can be true at the same time.

I love being his mom.

Let me start there because somebody is going to intentionally misunderstand everything I’m about to say if I don’t.

I love my son every single day.

I love being his mother every single day.

He is my favorite person on this entire planet. He is funny as hell. I would die for him. Literally.

Wouldn’t trade him.

Wouldn’t replace him.

Wouldn’t choose another kid.

But do I love being a mom every day?

Girl.

That’s where you’re dragging it.

Sometimes I don’t feel like doing this shit.

And apparently we’re not supposed to say that part out loud.

Sometimes I Just Don’t Want to Do This Today

I remember when my son was a baby and started becoming mobile.

That child was a busybody.

And I was tired.

Not “Ooh, I could use a little nap” tired.

I mean the kind of tired where your entire body is begging you to close your eyes, but you can’t because there’s a tiny human roaming around with absolutely no regard for his own mortality.

I couldn’t just go to sleep.

In my exhausted-mom brain, the second I closed my eyes he was obviously going to stick a knife in an electrical socket, fall down the stairs or discover some completely new way to hurt himself that hadn’t even occurred to me yet.

So sometimes I’d put him on my bed with me, keep my hand on his foot so I’d know if he moved, and sleep.

That was the solution.

Not something out of a parenting book.

Not some beautiful Instagram motherhood moment.

I was fucking tired.

And I needed a nap.

There was another period when I was in college.

I needed to do homework.

He needed to be approximately six inches from my face.

Those two things were not compatible.

His room had everything.

A trampoline. A ball pit. Toys. All the cool stuff a little kid could possibly need.

I put up the baby gate, sat on one side with my laptop and let him play safely on the other side where I could see him.

Perfect plan.

Except he didn’t give a damn about the trampoline.

Or the ball pit.

Or the toys.

Because I wasn’t in there.

So he stood at that baby gate crying and screaming while I tried to read.

I would read the same sentence.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Probably five, ten, fifteen times.

Nothing.

His crying had drowned out every bit of concentration I had.

And I remember being so frustrated because I wasn’t asking for much.

I wasn’t trying to go to Cabo.

I was trying to read a fucking sentence.

And Now He Talks.

Oh my God.

Does this child talk.

He’s nine now, and talking is one of the ways he stims.

He talks.

And talks.

And talks.

And talks.

Sometimes I have absolutely no idea what the hell we’re talking about.

Actually, I don’t even know if we’re talking.

Because a conversation implies some kind of back-and-forth situation.

Sometimes I’m simply the audience for whatever thought happens to pass through his brain.

“Hey Mom, did you know—”

“And of course—”

“Well because—”

“And another thing—”

Meanwhile:

“Mm-hmm.”

“Wow.”

“Really?”

“That’s crazy.”

I am fighting for my life.

Because some days?

I don’t want to talk.

I don’t want to be touched.

I don’t want fifteen thousand kisses on my cheeks.

I don’t want another “Hey, Mom.”

I don’t want to teach anything.

I don’t want to redirect anything.

I don’t want to turn something into a life lesson.

I want to sit in my room, watch television, be quiet and have absolutely nobody require anything from me.

And I’ve finally stopped feeling guilty for saying that.

Sometimes I Wish I Only Had to Worry About Me

Here’s another thing we’re apparently not supposed to admit.

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if I had never become a parent.

Not because I wish my son didn’t exist.

I wish I knew what it felt like to only be responsible for myself.

What am I eating for dinner?

Where do I want to go?

What do I want to wear?

Do I want to take a trip?

No arranging childcare.

No wondering whether he’s okay.

No wondering whether he feels safe.

No wondering whether he feels loved.

No worrying about school or adulthood or friendships or whether I’ve taught him enough.

Just me.

I became pregnant at 25 and had him at 26.

And when I look back, I realize I never really experienced living completely by myself.

I lived with my mother.

I lived with a boyfriend who became my husband and eventually my ex-husband.

And somewhere in between, I became someone’s mother.

Sometimes I mourn the version of myself that never got to be completely selfish.

Not selfish in a cruel way.

Selfish in the way you get to be when nobody’s life depends on you.

I wish sometimes that I’d had more time to discover her.

Because now so much of me gets poured into being Mom.

And when you’re parenting a child who needs additional support, sometimes it feels like there’s even less of you left over.

His needs.

His wants.

His safety.

His development.

His future.

His everything.

First.

And I’m still in here too.

Motherhood Didn’t Erase My Humanity

This is the part I think we get wrong.

We acknowledge postpartum depression.

We talk more now about maternal mental health.

But underneath all of that, there’s still this expectation that once a woman becomes a mother, she should somehow become endlessly available.

Endlessly patient.

Endlessly nurturing.

Endlessly interested in children.

And if she has a village and actually uses it?

Here come the comments.

“You never have your kids.”

“You’re always doing something.”

“You’re always going somewhere.”

Okay.

And?

Using help doesn’t mean a parent doesn’t want their child.

Sometimes Grandma’s house is exactly where those kids need to be because Mom needs five damn minutes to remember she has a first name.

We are still human beings.

Motherhood doesn’t cancel that.

And having your children physically underneath you 24 hours a day while you’re overstimulated, angry, touched-out and miserable doesn’t automatically make you a better mother.

Sometimes being a good mother means recognizing:

I am not emotionally regulated enough for this shit today.

And getting some help.

Taking the break.

Going somewhere.

Sitting alone.

Watching TV in your room.

Taking the bubble bath.

Doing whatever brings your nervous system back down to earth.

Then coming back.

Because I Always Come Back

That’s the part that matters to me.

I don’t have to enjoy every part of motherhood to show up for my child.

There’s plenty of stuff I don’t feel like doing.

I do it anyway.

I don’t feel like paying bills either.

But those motherfuckers get paid.

Same concept.

I can be exhausted and still show up.

I can need space and still show up.

I can be overstimulated and still show up.

I can think, “Why the hell did I have a kid?” and still get up the next morning and be his mother.

Two things can be true at the same time.

And sometimes after I’ve reached my absolute limit, this child will walk into the room and say something so ridiculous that I start laughing.

And there he is again.

My favorite person.

Still annoying.

Still mine.

Still loved beyond comprehension.

So If You’ve Ever Thought It Too…

If another mother whispered to me:

“Sometimes I don’t want to be a mom.”

Girl.

You ain’t the only one.

And the fact that you can admit it doesn’t automatically make you a bad mother.

You don’t have to love every minute of parenting to love your child.

You don’t have to enjoy being touched constantly.

You don’t have to want to talk all day.

You don’t have to turn every difficult moment into some beautiful lesson about motherhood.

Sometimes today just sucked.

Sometimes you need help.

Sometimes you need space.

Sometimes you need to admit you’re overwhelmed before that overwhelm comes out in ways you regret.

Get the help.

Use the village if you have one.

Take the break when you safely can.

Reset.

And come back.

Because I’ve learned that my son doesn’t need a mother who can prove she can suffer through everything without help.

He needs a mother who knows when she needs to get herself together.

So no.

I don’t love being a mom every day.

But I love being his mom every single one of them.

And there’s a difference.

Welcome to Normability.

Normal was never the standard.