I Just Wanted My Four Hours

Today was one of those days where you just feel like someone is hitting you over the head with a hammer over and over and over again until you are driven so far into the ground that you just can’t imagine ever being able to get out.

I overslept. I never oversleep. I’m up by 4:30 every morning and headed to yoga where I get my zen on and think about all the ways I’m going to kick motherhood’s butt that day. I have an hour of silence and peace and sweat to purge all the horrible parenting I did the day before. It’s my time. My only time during the day where I am thinking about no one else but myself. And I slept through it.

This led to us being late for wake up, drop off, and work (I help out in the child watch of my gym once a week). I was cranky and yelling and generally a real brat to everyone. And then I tried to start the dishwasher and it didn’t work. And I muttered a string of profanities in my head that would put a sailor to shame. I knew what a broken dishwasher meant. It meant that I was going to wash every dish by hand and have to wait around for god only knows how many hours for the repair man to come the next day. But the next day is Friday and it’s one of two days I have in a week where I have four glorious hours without children and wouldn’t you know it, Sears only had Friday from 8 AM to 12 PM as their service window. Poof. I waved goodbye to my four hours of peace as soon as I booked the appointment.

I went about the rest of my Thursday which included meeting with my middle kid’s speech pathologist because apparently it’s detrimental to her entire life if she can’t properly pronounce her S’s and F’s. My youngest sat next to me in the meeting breaking every single one of the crayons given to him and laughing like a maniac. Thanks, dude.

When we got home I started washing all the dishes and my son went down in the basement to bounce on the bounce house. After a few minutes he was back upstairs with a sippy cup and a funny look on his face. “Mommy, my waka is chewy!” Turns out it wasn’t waka (water), it was milk that was at least 5 days old. Within seconds he barfed in my face. Three times.

I scrambled to find someone to pick my girls up from school because I was dripping in vomit and had exactly 12 minutes before I had to be there. I texted my boss and told her I wasn’t going to make it to teach my afternoon yoga class and I threw my son in the shower and left him there for a solid 5 minutes while he screamed and I managed to clean myself up enough to not look like a total disaster when the girls got home.

Then it was homework time and my 5 year old spent TWENTY FIVE MINUTES writing the number 3 so it was perfectly set on the line and I wanted to stick her pencil in my eyeball. Finally, at 4 PM I turned on the TV and told all three of them not to move until dinner. I just couldn’t be a mom anymore.

I wandered into the kitchen to start dinner and wound up watching the water boil before my phone went off with a text from a friend with a link to an article that sent me into the most perilous downward spiral. It was like all the crap from the day centered on the words on my phone screen and pushed me over the edge. I started to shake and cry and bang my head against the counter.  The next two hours were a total blur. I think everyone got fed. I think they took a shower. I’m pretty sure they’re all asleep now. Not sure, but almost positive.
When my husband got home he asked me how my day was and I didn’t answer. Instead I threw the report cards at his face and said, “See? I told you we started her too early.” {sidenote: my middle kid has an August birthday and her teacher is always giving me a guilt trip because she thinks she started kindergarten too early. Report cards came home and she had “N” in every spot which means “needs work” and I have been in a shame spiral ever since.} We fought about it for a minute and then he went to tuck the kids in. Always the hero, he comes home at the end of the day to kiss them goodnight and they get happy daddy instead of angry mommy. It works, I guess except that I’m always the enemy. Sigh.

When he came back downstairs he dared to ask me again how my day was and I lost it. Lost. It. I complained about the dishwasher, about the article I read, about the miserable homework time, about the rotten milk barfing, and missing my yoga class, and waaaah waaaah waaaaaaaah. At the end of my rant all I could hear myself saying was, “I just wanted my four hours” as I sobbed into a box of joe joe’s.

What’s the point of this whole ridiculous story? I don’t really have one except to complain. I hate to do it but I feel the need to reach for some solidarity here. WHY DOESN’T ANYONE TELL YOU HOW HARD IT IS?

Why don’t people tell you that there will be days that you’ll be pissed off about the STUPIDEST stuff but it will stop your world from spinning and you won’t be able to get beyond the fact that because the damn dishwasher broke you won’t be able to get your eyebrows done or go to the grocery store without a cart full of kids? Why doesn’t anyone tell you that some days you’ll barely be able to function let alone take care of other human beings? And why doesn’t anyone tell you that when your significant other comes home and asks you how your day was that you’ll basically verbally b***h slap them for daring to ask? Why don’t they tell you that you’ll write endless run-on sentences on a blog about 12 people read?

I try to do a lot. Too much sometimes but I have to do a lot to keep myself sane. I thrive on routine and when my routine is messed up, it screws up the whole family. Wednesdays and Fridays from 9 AM to 1 PM are sacred. I get those four hours to do whatever I want. I work, I sleep, I watch TV, I exercise, I see friends, I sit and stare at the wall (for real, I have done that before). It’s my time and the stupid dishwasher messed it up. I just wanted my four hours.

My friends, I hope you’ve read this and learned that a) I am a truly ridiculous person who borders on a spoiled brat and b) that if you’ve ever felt like I felt today, you’re not alone. Believe me. It is so hard to be the one to carry the weight of the every day on your shoulders. This stay-at-home mom gig is not for the faint of heart (or the weak of stomach). It is hard work and I salute all of you who do it and a zillion other things every day.

It’s okay to feel like this is a hard job. IT IS! I often find myself saying, “This isn’t rocket science, why is today such a hard day?” and I’ve really had to stop myself from downgrading my job. I admit that sometimes I feel ashamed when people ask me what I “do”. I whisper that I’m a mom and loudly speak that I am also an event planner, etc. Why am I ashamed of it? Why is it hard? Why do I feel like I am doing something wrong when I tell people that I’m a mom?

Today reminded me that being a mom is a job in and of itself. It is managing schedules and dealing with the mundane but it is also so very important. My attitude bleeds onto my kids. When I’m cranky, they’re cranky and believe me, today we were all a hot mess. But tomorrow I get to start all over and they will have all but forgotten the fact that I cried while serving them their meatballs at dinner the night before.

So, tomorrow I’ll go to yoga at the crack of dawn and then take everyone to school. Instead of having my four hours of peace, I’ll hang out with the Sears repairman and just deal with the fact that my eyebrows are horror movie scary and have a bit of a pity party that I’ll have to take all three kids to the grocery store after school. It could be worse.

I’ll leave you with this. An incredible woman whom I adore and admire once shared with me how she dealt with all the chaos in her life with many kids and grand kids. She told me that every once in a while she had to go into the bathroom and look in the mirror and say, “You have everything you’ve ever wished for. Enjoy it!”

Tomorrow, I will enjoy it.

Xx, Rach

P.S. Don’t forget to enter the giveaway!