a gift, but also a nightmare

Can I be candid about motherhood?  I’m going to be.

A lot of times, it sucks.

I remember being a new mother, with raw nipples and tear-stained cheeks and puffy eyes thinking, why didn’t anyone tell me this? Why couldn’t one person have been honest about how hard parenting is?

It’s fucking hard. I mean, really fucking hard. Kids are a gift, but also a nightmare.

I know I’m not supposed to say that. I live in a generation full of moms who say only the stuff people expect to hear. The gift part. About how their lives are richer, fuller, complete even because of their children.

I, on the other hand, think you could have a rich, full, complete life with or without children. Choose your path. One is not greater than the other. We should not shame people who choose different journeys than our own.

I digress.

Here’s my truth:

There are those moments–like tonight, when I looked over at the two boys sleeping in my bed between my husband and I–that are heart-warming. I smiled and thought, this isn’t so bad. It’s good even. There are moments when your family is united and everything is running smoothly and no one is yelling. It’s true, there are some. But mostly, that’s when the kids are asleep.

The moments that fill the space between the peaceful, happy ones are the majority of parenting. There is whining and screaming, fighting and yelling, tantrums and meltdowns. Sometimes it’s the kids. But it’s us parents too. We are not immune to the ups and downs of all these beings sharing a home, an existence.

There are lessons to teach, lessons to learn. 

I don’t know a single mother who wears lipstick and drinks her coffee on the patio each morning, serenely watching her children toss around a baseball. Usually it’s stained sweatpants and yesterday’s mascara, nagging for the umpteenth time to put the toys away. I’ve told you a hundred times to clean up these damn toys! 

Most of the time, we aren’t actually waxing poetic about what a gift children are.

We are dreaming of a cocktail on a beach somewhere. A vacation. A break. Peace. Quiet. Calm. We do this while we pick up toys, while we spread peanut butter on bread, while we wipe pee off the floor. We do this when we hurry our children out of public, apologizing profusely to strangers. When we’re up at three a.m., inching out of the nursery, praying the baby doesn’t stir.

We are not as good as we claim to be. Because we’re humans. Fucking humans. We are real people, not glossy magazine stills. What’s so bad about being real? About ditching the act? There is nothing wrong with honesty when it is delivered with good intentions.

This is the start to a little blog series on mothering.  My mothering.

It is not a how-to guide.

But it is honest. And despite the language, I promise I’m writing it with good intentions.