I feel like I’m drowning. Which is ironic because inside there is a rage rising up that scares even me; a monster that resembles Te Fiti in Moana as she rises out of the ocean surrounded by smoke with fire pouring out the top of her head. I feel raw. Like my inner ugliness is laid out and exposed, staring me in the face. Currently my toddler is screaming upstairs after waking up from a very short nap- a nap that I specifically postponed in order to have him hopefully sleep longer. Why is it that I haven’t learned this tactic never works? I’ll give him some credit though, he did manage to sleep long enough for me to put my preschooler into his quiet time, gather some laundry to start in the washer, and then waited exactly for when I sat down with a nice refreshing drink and my Bible to wake up and unload fury with his lungs, because, of course he would. And it’s not the first time his timing has been so impeccable. This is his usual plan of attack, and I’m over it. I’m tired. I’m lonely. Does anything I do matter beyond the moment? Does anyone see me? Does anyone hear me that I can’t do this?!
Of course I know in my heart what I do - taking care of my children with every second of every one of my days and with every ounce of all the energy I can muster - matters deeply. Of course I know I’m not invisible. The one year old constantly tugging on my leg wherever I try and escape to in the house reminds me endlessly that I’m seen. As far as anyone hearing me? I can’t even hear my own self think over the sheer ear-splitting volume in this house on the daily.
How is it that in the midst of doing the one thing I know I was meant to do, and do well, is also the same thing that leaves me feeling shattered, drained, and left an empty shell of anything resembling myself? I want to grieve for myself. I want to grieve for the girl I used to be, which I can’t recognize anymore. I feel shame for wishing I didn’t look like I do now. Like someone who, with first glance, you know is a mom. That saggy tummy, that pudgy under-chin area that came out of nowhere and won’t disappear, those bags under my eyes and tired skin that hasn’t seen regularly applied makeup for about 5 years now, my mis-matched outfit of yesterday’s top and last night’s pajama pants that I won’t get a chance (or have a reason) to change out of so it’ll become tomorrow’s uniform. All these things betray me when I’m trying desperately to conceal the fact that I feel like nothing other than a frumpy mom. I feel shame to admit that my nightmare is unexpectedly running into anyone that knew me before kids and feeling shock at how different I am, and look. In my rare quiet moments I feel bombarded by a lie that yells that I was a better version of myself before, and that I’m getting worse as the days go by. I feel shame to say that most days I hate myself.
I feel shame that I can’t seem to get a handle on all the things I’m supposed to be doing right. There are too many metaphorical balls to juggle, and still, not surprisingly, only two hands to juggle them with. I feel utterly overwhelmed with the running list of daily and weekly tasks to be done on top of raising humans: clean the house, do the laundry, meal plan, make said meals, run errands, don’t forget to work out so you don’t look like a mom, don’t forget to shower so you don’t smell like garbage, be a good wife, be a good friend, make sure your kids have friends, make sure your kids are involved in activities so they aren’t bored or weird, and make sure sometime during the day you do something for yourself that will fill you up enough (and better still if it brings in actual money) so that when you wake up again in a few hours you can do it all over again and not feel like you’re drowning.
Well, today I failed, because today I feel like I’m drowning. Really, today I am continuing to drown from the drowning that started a long time ago. But today I also wanted to write to get it out. I wanted to let others know they aren’t alone in how they might be feeling during this stage of raising little ones. I guess I wanted to write to remind myself that my worth doesn’t come from the fact that there are toys littered everywhere across my floors and there’s dried banana goop on the walls where little hands have smeared and now it looks like dried boogers on the wall. Heck, it very well could be dried boogers on the wall. Who’s to say at this point. I wanted to write to remind myself I’m not a bad mom because my toddler ran around in a diaper too long as I was trying to clean the monstrosity that is my kitchen and didn’t smell that he needed changing, only to cause a rash on his butt that literally bleeds- my own heart bleeding every time I change him and see it. I wanted to remind myself that even if the only thing I do all day is give my children a safe and loving home within which to completely destroy while being kids and doing the innocent destruction that kids do, then I’ve done enough.
It doesn’t matter that the laundry I tried to start has now been forgotten in the bottom of the washer, slowly growing mildewy which I won’t remember until the next time I attempt to throw a load in. It doesn’t matter that I put the roll of paper towels in the fridge and didn’t realize it until hours later when I needed to move them to get the peanut butter jar (because what else do my kids agree to eat other than pb&j for breakfast, lunch and dinner), and now I seriously consider if I’m losing my mind. Nevermind the Masters Degree I hold, I can’t seem to stop putting the milk in the cupboard. It doesn’t matter that the kitchen table is so dirty during breakfast that there’s barely room for the plates. What matters is that the Bible is read aloud to little ears while we eat. What matters is to remember to be thankful for the food in the fridge that I can offer my growing children. What matters is the cultivation of a thankful heart that is grateful for the clothes that need washing. What ultimately matters is that I’m growing, and changing, and evolving in this refining fire that is motherhood. If this is the environment in which God makes me more into His Son, then let the dross in me rise up, and may He take it away, ever revealing and exposing the parts of me that reflect His light.
This. This process of being slowly squeezed and pressed and wrung out isn’t running me dry. That’s a lie I’ve believed for too long. It is actually releasing the anointing oil that drips slowly and then pools and then runs, like a healing salve, down deep into my soul that allows me to walk in my purpose with power from the Holy Spirit. This refining fire from my all-consuming God, is melting away my ugliness, my pride, my striving, my shame, and leaving me exposed to His sanctifying love. This, is raw motherhood.
Hugs,
Nicole (your fellow mama in the fire with you)