It's official. I have become Kate Gosselin.
No, I don't mean that I am pregnant with sextuplets (heaven help us all if that ever happened!). No, I do not have an atrocious haircut. No, I do not allegedly put the quest for fame ahead of my children. And, no, I am not filing for divorce after 10 years of being together with my husband (well, at least not today...but he better act right! Just kidding...)
But, like Kate and so many other harried moms that we all see every day, I have lost touch with the true meaning of motherhood. The tantrums, sleep deprivation and constant vigilance of being the mom of 2 under the age of 3 has officially caught up with me.
My patience is non-existent. EVERYTHING gets on my nerves. My husband can do nothing right, and when he does something better than me THAT irritates me even more. I am on top of every detail in my home - to do lists made and checked off, sleeping and eating schedules synchronized, bath and bedtimes cacophonous but like clockwork.
But I can't help but think that I don't even really know my own kids. I feel more like a maid or circus ringmaster than a mother.
I have fallen into the trap (once again) of doing rather than being. I get things done. I technically spend time with my kids but more and more these days it's about getting it over with rather than enjoyment.
And that's a shame.
I wish I could say that things are different with my husband, but unfortunately the bulk of our couple-dom is taken up by childrearing or recovering from said children. Not much talk that does not involve discussing the merits of time-out vs. spanking, scheduled naps vs. all hell breaking loose...you get the picture.
In this blog, I like to tell it like it is so that all you other moms out there don't feel like you're alone. To eliminate some of the mommy guilt and just speak the truth.
So, in the spirit of The BadAssMama Chronicles, I am going to reveal my most shocking truth to date.
This morning, I wished that I did not have kids.
There. I've said it.
After my normal 5am wake up call (thank you, Hurricane Victor) followed by the whining terror (a.k.a. Angel) at 5:35, I found myself being downright mean. Yelling at the baby. Screaming at Angel to STOP WHINING FOR CHRIST'S SAKE. Throwing dirty looks at my husband.
As Big Angel took the kids downstairs for some breakfast (and, more likely, to whisk them away from the raving lunatic that his formerly blushing bride has become), I lay silently in my bed, thinking of happier times when I could sleep in until noon. Going for a run at 8am rather than midnight. Spending 90 minutes in the gym. Seeing movies that didn't involve cartoon characters or emotional intelligence. Going out to dance with my girlfriends. Occasionally drinking just a bit more than I should have. Reading the entire Sunday paper (OK, I never ACTUALLY did that, but had the option to!).
Don't get me wrong. I LOVE my children. Madly. Insanely. They give my life a meaning that I never thought it would have. I truly don't know what I would do if anything ever happened to them.
But sometimes, they just piss me off.
There...I said it again. And you KNOW that you've thought it in the past.
Sometimes, I just want them to play nicely. Sometimes, I just want a day without whining or tantrums or refusing to eat or screaming for lollipops (how did they even learn what a lollipop is?)
I think I need a vacation from motherhood. Not a long one. Maybe just a few days.
No big "ah ha!" moment or blinding insight from this post, folks. Just truth. Nasty, embarrassing, raw, keeping-it-real truth.
Just another day in the life of a BadAssMama.