Being a mom is hard. Here’s a few reasons why I’m really not all that good at it
Don’t let my sweet pictures and fuzzy blog posts confuse you. Being a mom is hard and in many ways I’m really not all that good at it. No, really. It’s true. Here’s why.
I hate cooking. I really really hate it. I do it but I don’t like it. I hate it even more when the kids decide they want to “help.” Because, let’s be honest, they don’t help. It’s damage control. And I’d much rather just get the horror of cooking over with.
And then you actually have to get them to eat it. Trying to get a three and two year old to eat their chicken and rice is like asking them to walk on coals. So, no, I don’t like cooking.
I also have an unnatural disdain for bath time. The hubs takes care of that. When I have to do bath time my chest tightens and my blood pressure rises. The splashing water causes my OCD to kick in and I can’t help but want to end bath time immediately so I can proceed to clean every square inch of the now clearly contaminated bathroom.
I forget to brush their hair. Now some days I remember. Other days I find myself looking down at them and wondering when the last time was that their precious little heads meet with the brush. Thankfully their beautiful little curls hide it well and they don’t seem to mind. Honestly, not many toddlers look forward to hair brush time, if you know what I mean. So, I like to tell myself that I am sparing them the trauma.
I have developed a love for earplugs. That sounds terrible. I know. But those little blue silencers just muffle the sound of the playful screams so I can grab a moment of relative quiet with a cup of coffee. Don’t judge. I didn’t originally purchase them with thoughts of blissful at-home ignorance. Nope, I bought them for a plane ride. But now I can’t go back. I can’t. And I won’t.
I come alive after bedtime. The minutes leading up to bedtime and lullabies and cuddles are a lifetime. By the time I’m tucking them under their covers my eyelids droop and I swear I’m going to bed early. But something happens in the five steps from their bedside to their door. When it closes behind me it’s like I’m a teenager again (at least until 10 p.m.) and the world is my oyster. I can do whatever I want. I can eat all the chocolate without sharing and Doc McStuffins gives way to Joanna Gaines. It’s blissful.
But I still wake the next morning ready to do it all again. Somehow I still get the privilege of their hugs and kisses, the gift of hearing big girl pray with an honesty that is both heartwarming and hysterical, and I get to invest in them with my time and my energy. Because being a mom is the coolest thing I get to do.
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