Just me?

Sometimes . . .  I hate being a mother.  And, I wonder if I am really cut out for it.

What you just read—that confession—has been sitting in my drafts folder since March 2014. And now that I’ve said it, the urge to backspace and instead tell a fluffy little story about how much I hate laundry, (well, dirty laundry, not clean laundry) is so strong; Incredible Hulk-on-steroids strong. Because, I mean, who doesn’t like clean laundry, especially in the winter when it’s straight-out-of-the-dryer warm and it’s snowing outside and you are about to go build a snowman with sticks for arms and a carrot for the penis, I mean, nose.

NO.

To hell with laundry and to hell with all the sanctimommies waiting in the wings with their pitchforks and caps locks who will read my confession and think the reason I hate being a mother sometimes is because I’m (clearly) doing something wrong. Like maybe I’ve miscounted my blessings or I don’t meditate enough or have the right balance of cardio-to-weight training or eat the right amount of kale. Maybe I’m off my meds or I go out too much or not enough. Maybe I’m not trying hard enough to stay positive and I should smile more or choose a better mantra or get more rest, work less, find a purpose, use Turmeric, put yogurt in my vagina, or buy a better vibrator.

Whatever it is, whatever they’ll say, I’m tired of leaving my feelings in the drafts folder just because it feels dangerous to say them out loud.

The truth is, being a mother is fucking hard. Hard, because of the infinite amount of demands that are put on us. Hard, because of the relentless responsibilities. Hard, because of the filth. OH GOD, THE FILTH. It’s exhausting and somedays… somedays, I just want to set it all on fire while I watch from across the street laughing like a supervillain. Burn, dirty dishes! Burn, shit-stained underwear! Burn, bathtub ring that won’t come off no matter how. hard. I. scrub!

Don’t get me wrong, I love my son. Of course I do, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t also have this person, this woman, inside me who wants carve “fuck this shit” into the side of the minivan with an ice pick, take an Über to the airport, and fly off someplace where there are no rotting vegetables in the crisper, no “but all the other kids have new bikes, why don’t I?,” and no more birthday parties at Chuck E. Cheese’s where the play area always smells like old vomit and toe jam.

I want to wear the red lipstick that has been rotting at the bottom of my purse. NO! I want to buy NEW lipstick, the kind that costs $36 bucks a tube, and a wardrobe full of miniskirts and sleeveless shirts to wear dancing WITHOUT SPANX and I want to relish the feeling of the breeze against my unadulterated body as it writhes to the bass-heavy rhythm under the hot lights.

I want to stop thinking of myself as a “before” picture and treat myself like an “after.” I want to sew all my “flattering” tunics into a giant flag and write “FUCK SHAME” in black sharpie, put it on the back of my bike, and ride through town naked.

No, I do not know where your swim shirt is. No, you may not have another piece of candy. Yes, I did get your voicemail; I’m ignoring you. TAKE THE HINT.

I want to join a drum circle in the park and bang triplets against eighth notes in a broom skirt braless, while smoking weed and eating Cheetos.

I want to let my laugh, my real laugh, off its leash to run kangaroo-on-crack wild until it kicks the polite mommy-chuckle lodged in my throat to the curb. For good.

I want to trade “yes,” for “NO.” “Sure,” for silence. And, “sorry” for “actually? I’m NOT.”

I’m tired of using my time wisely, tired of keeping up appearances, of reading labels, counting carbs, googling symptoms, exfoliating, deescalating, hand sanitizing, reorganizing, smart shopping, and “not to bragging.” Tired of the waxing and plucking and scrimping and scrolling. Of meet-ups and time outs and Jones keeping upping. Of holding my tongue while letting it go in an age-appropriate way.

I’m tired.

I’m tired of being tired and even though I want to walk, no, run, no, sprint, away from all the crumbs, the pet hair, the moldy grout, the overdue bills, and the underspent years, I won’t.

I won’t.

Instead, I’ll finally hit publish just to feel alive for one more gaht dam minute before I run downstairs to the dryer, because the timer went off and you know how wrinkly the laundry gets when you don’t take it out right away.

 


Image: Moroconwriters.com

31 thoughts on “Just me?

  1. Thank you. For saying what I’m too chicken shit to spit out- and way better than I could, to show me how. So many times I think of something I’d like to write but dont for that fear paralyzes me yet. And that freedom from posting is so real and so unexpected.

    Liked by 3 people

  2. You are more than awesome! I laughed so hard all the while feeling your pain. You may be my daughter incognito. I am going to forward this to her, with the question, “hey, you didn’t tell me you were blogging!” lol.
    This is perfect, what so many of us feel in our heart of hearts.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. ‘No, I do not know where your swim shirt is.’ I feel like I spend half my day saying just this… Oi, it’s tough being a mom robot. I don’t believe anyone that says they love every moment!

    Liked by 1 person

  4. I don’t have kids of my own, yet I was still able to relate to almost every word of this! You’re definitely not a bad mother for thinking it either. I’m so glad you finally pulled this out of draft mode. So much perfection!

    Like

    1. It’s hard enough being a woman, but then to add taking care of a child or children on top of that … it’s beyond difficult. Like if difficult is here X, being a mom and woman is all the way over ……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..here.

      Like

  5. As a mom, I completely get you. Sigh, some days are harder than others, aren’t they? And it doesn’t even matter how many kids you have. It’s this perennial round of exhaustion, no matter what you do. Some days I just want to sit on the beach and write till my lungs explode from joy. I hear ya, sistah!

    Like

  6. ha ha! that was fantastic. I have never read a mum hit publish on such a marvellous piece. thank you for that honesty and yes, big thank you for not ending the piece by saying ‘I love being a Mum’.
    Lisa, you are a rockstar!

    Like

  7. Your essay manages to be both particular and universal; your frank wording relatable. I almost felt like you were admitting that sometimes you hate being a woman. (A generalized idea of a woman- I’m not intending to pigeonhole women.) Reads fast and fluid. Great!

    Like

  8. Yes! My kids are adults now and I am so grateful on any number of levels that I did not have the internet constantly pointing out everywhere I was failing as a mother.

    And any mother who claims that she hasn’t felt just like you is lying. Thank you for all your honesty! We need that so much more than another program on how to cook kale while teaching your child differential calculus and training your dog to smile for Instagram.

    Like

  9. I see a full-bore punk anthem in your future. It would be scarier (and true, not to mention cathartic, to boot) than Patti Smith in full cry! I have this vision of a club full of pissed-off moms letting it all go as Scary Moms rock the stage. Rolling Stone would make it a cover story. Guys who missed out on all this need to hear it.

    Liked by 1 person

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