Once upon a time, when I was 31 years old, I sat crying. I wanted a child to love SO badly. I asked God “why?” Why couldn’t I get pregnant? Why did it seem everyone around me was having babies? I was married 1st to someone who turned out to be infertile, and the 2nd who’d been “fixed.” Why me? All I wanted was a baby to love. A child to care for, raise and teach to be a good person. I would be a good mom. I knew it.
Then one day, when I wasn’t expecting it, I was pregnant. (Isn’t that always how it seems to happen?)
The Angels sang a chorus and I was blessed!
I had an easy pregnancy and was SO happy. I prepared my son’s room with meticulous detail. I stenciled rocketships on the walls and registered for just the right equipment so that I would be prepared.
What seemed like an eternity later, my son was born.
And he was horrible!
This child screamed for weeks and weeks. We tried so many remedies to fix his colic (it’s what the doctor said was wrong). “Don’t worry, it will pass.”
Eventually the “screaming for hours on end” phase passed. I was getting the hang of this mother thing. It would be okay.
Then one day, before Anthony even had his first birthday, and when I certainly wasn’t expecting it, I was pregnant. Again.
This time it was: Holy shit!
When I showed Bob the pregnancy test, he asked me, “are you trying to kill me?”
I was happy but scared. I had only barely figured out how to take care of one and now there was another coming. Yikes.
One day in December, the ultrasound tech said, “You know there’s two?”
Again: Holy shit!
I was barely prepared for a second child, and now there were TWO more.
The twins came along and both of them together were 1000 times easier than Anthony ever thought about being. I thought, “cool. I can do this. Twins aren’t that hard.”
And truthfully, “twins” aren’t that hard. As a unit they get along pretty well and entertain each other. It’s just children in general that are so much harder than I ever thought they would be.
My kids frustrate me. A lot.
I scream now more than I should.
I cuss. A lot.
I freak out on them when I should remain calm.
I don’t do crafts with them (nightmare!).
I arrange my shopping trips specifically around Bob’s schedule so I don’t have to bring them with me.
I hide in the bathroom and cry.
I cry when Nay craps his pants for the 4th time in one day.
I yell when they ask for corndogs but then refuse to eat them.
I get pissed when my 5yo tells me he likes chicken dinosaurs better than my homemade version (which is really very delicious!).
I really wanted to be the good mom. And it’s not that I think I’m a bad mom, it’s just that this doesn’t come naturally for me like I thought it would. I see other mom’s that make it look so easy. They are so patient! They never raise their voices and they say “shucks” when something crazy happens.
I waited my whole life to become a mom, why don’t I like it more? Why can’t this be easier for me?
Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely adore my boys. More than the world, I would DIE for them. So why can’t I harness some June Cleaver mojo and do this better? Why can’t I relax and be happy? Why has the past five years been just so darn hard?