I don’t want to complain tonight, but can I be real? I’m tired. I will be 41 in nine days. I have been at this motherhood thing for twenty-two years, and I still have eleven to go until my youngest is 18. That’s thirty-three years, y’all. Thirty-three years of cleaning up after little people, breaking up arguments, fixing broken toys, birthday parties, tantrums (oh yes, I am still dealing with that…)
Please don’t get me wrong, I love my kids. In fact, being single for the last five years, I probably would have gone half mad living alone if it hadn’t been for my kids in the next room.
But it’s tiring and worrisome because I feel like I’m failing half the time. I mean, in theory, I know I’m not, but don’t we all feel that way at some point? Like tonight, they didn’t want to go to bed and were whining. But I was already tired, and the house is a mess (which always puts me on edge because I can’t stand it!), so things spiraled out of control quickly.
Tears were shed by all, and there were apologies all around. There were hugs and kisses and they went to bed on a good note. But the house is still a mess, and I just left it. It will still be there tomorrow, right? Sure, it’s nice to wake up to a clean house, but sometimes some quiet time after the kids have gone to bed makes the world (and my mind) a better place.
There is a list nowadays of things we are labeling as “self-care”. I’m not sure if “Leave the house in shambles and go write a blog post” is on the list, but maybe it should be. In ten years, the kids won’t remember if the house was spotless or a wreck tonight, but they just might remember the heart-to-heart we had before they drifted off to sleep; and that is better than a clean kitchen any day.