being mom

“What is this?” he asks.

“It’s a baby, “ I whisper.

“It’s a doggy. Not a baby,” He whispers back.

“I know… It’s a doggy you can hold instead of my hair. See how nice his fur is.”

“No, I want your hair,” He says throwing the dog at my face.

“Close your eyes,” I moan.

“I need my monkey blanket.”

“This blanket is fine. Just use mommy’s blanket,” I plead.  

“I need your hair,” he repeats.

“Go to sleep.”

He nestles in closer. So close his hair’s touching my nose. His little hand wraps around my hair gently as he pulls it to his face. I give in knowing he won’t go to sleep without it. I need to keep the goal in mind. He woke up fussy and NEEDS a nap. I NEED him to take a nap. He’s driving me crazy with clinginess! And I need to get some work done.

I’m doing research to market this memoir I wrote and the more I research other people’s blogs the more self-doubt creeps in. These women have credentials – like real ones. They write for magazines and newspapers or have done grand things pre-blogging days. While I was busy being a mother they were busy building a resume. And I quietly wonder if I made the right choice. Staying home with these kids. I was raised by a daycare afterall and I turned out okay, right?

I think about this when I finish cleaning one room just to turn around find out my preschooler made a mess in another; when I finish the dishes only to put more in the sink at lunchtime.  

I think of this at night when I go into the bedtime process feeling great, but coming out 45 minutes later feeling as if I’ve been hit by a Mack truck. And it’s not because my kids are terrible at going to bed. It’s just the whole process of making sure everyone’s teeth look and smell like they’ve been brushed, the baby’s gone potty and has his sippy cup, the girls and I have read our nightly devotional which sometimes brings up some weighty issues that they want to talk through. And I want to as well, but when it’s going on 40 minutes into the process my eyes start to glaze over and I start wondering if I’m cut out to be the mom for these dear children. I worry for their hearts. I’m so not good at emotions – knowing what to do with mine or theirs – and sometimes I want to cry in frustration when an anxious-ridden daughter won’t listen to reason. I literally feel like I’m on the verge of a panic attack. When she’s screaming and crying and writhing with frustration, I want to do the same thing! I empathize with other’s emotions, what can I say?

I wonder when a boy wants movies all the time and after half a morning I give in because 1) I’m tired of playing Candyland and 2) I’m tired of arguing with him. I wonder if he’d be better off in a place where someone can play with him at all times so he doesn’t have to come up with his own entertainment. Someone who isn’t as mentally tired as I am. Who thinks it’s fun to do crafts or play with play-doh. He deserves this. My girls got this (from me!).

This job of mom is tougher than I ever expected. It brings a greater respect and love for my mother and her mother before her. These women who I never saw complain while they raised more children than I ever thought of having. It also brings me to my knees like nothing else I’ve experience (except maybe marriage!). And that is where the self-doubt takes me as well. To my knees. This is where I’m living life lately. They say Abe Lincoln wore a spot on the Oval Office floor because he spent so much time kneeling in prayer. I don’t have a worn spot beside my bed, but I am getting some worn spots at the knees of my favorite jeans. Does that count?