Recently when I made my standard remark that parenting is hard to someone without kids, they said, “Well I know it’s hard. But what is so hard?” I fell back on the usual I’m exhausted from working and chasing after the kids. Believe me, that’s all true. But this one comment kept nagging me because it’s more than that. It’s just so hard and I don’t know how to say what that means without my eyes welling up with tears.
It’s hard because I’m exhausted, an in my bones tired that I have never experienced before in my whole life. An aching after a long sleepless night with a crying infant who has decided to wake every three hours and a toddler who still needs help wiping her butt at 3 am even though she’s potty trained.
It’s hard because I’m worried all the time that I’m good enough. I don’t always have a kindness in my voice and am worried they can hear that I’m stressed. I’m worried they hear I’m annoyed when they don’t listen or when they say they want to play the stupidest most boring game on the planet for the hundredth time that day. I’m worried that I’ll scar them for life when I lose my temper and yell. I’m worried that they won’t love me anymore if I am too tough on them.
It’s hard because I’m plagued by insecurity that we’re making the right choices. I wonder if we should make her go to dance class even though she said she doesn’t want to anymore. I question which school we’ll choose when they get older. I’m concerned that we don’t feed the baby enough organic vegetables. I’m worried we moved them up to the next car seat size too soon. I’m not sure how much longer we should let the baby keep using his pacifier.
It’s hard because sometimes I just want to go out with my friends after work and catch up on their lives. And sometimes I want to do that three nights in a row. Or go out on Friday and Saturday night to parties, events, and just whatever restaurant someone told me I must try. But I can’t, because not only do I have kids that I have to be home for, I actually want to be there. It’s a juggling act of missing my old life and not wanting to miss a moment of my new one.
It’s hard because I hate how jiggly my stomach is but I can’t find time to work out. And when people say I look great I think they mean, for a mom of two who is 25 lbs heavier than before. It’s hard because one moment I’m extremely content with this beautiful body who birthed two amazing kids and the next hating myself for not being able to squeeze into size 4 shorts that have sat in a drawer these past five years.
It’s hard because my soul will forever carry the burden of my children’s safety and happiness and the weight of that is sometimes unbearable. It’s hard to watch a tv show where a child is sick and not worry that could be mine. It’s hard to see the news and not feel the weight of every tragedy as if it happened directly to them.
It’s so hard. And I know exactly what it means. But I’m not sure that someone else will really want to listen.
