“I can’t do it.” The thought keeps ringing in my ears. “I am simply not cut out for this motherhood thing.”
Timothy had his first round of shots yesterday and he doesn’t feel well. Samuel is his typical, precocious two-and-a-half year old self in need of a constant playmate. I have to pump to feed Timothy. I am exhausted – too tired to stay on my feet long enough to wear Timothy in the front pack. I am hurting. I have overdone and am in pain from my prolapsed uterus. I don’t start treatment for another week and a half. Did I mention I’m exhausted? I have help. Even so I feel like things are falling apart. If that’s so, how on earth will I do this by myself? I can’t do this.
My husband is amazing – helping with the house, cooking, cleaning, diaper changes, baths, night wakings, etc. Who am I kidding? It’s more like I help him with these things. I feel like a sorry excuse for a homemaker.
I am burnt out. I need sleep. I need a break. Oh, if only motherhood was like teaching – eight hours a day with the kids, 100% engaged, then the rest of the day to do everything else, to rejuvenate, to do what I need to make those eight hours amazing.
But I really don’t want that. I want to be with my kids as they discover all the little mysteries of every day life. But I’m not doing that now. I’m trying to juggle pumping, a crying baby, a little boy desperate for attention and the lunch still on the table.
How do they do it? How did they do it? Women have done this for hundreds of years with way more responsibility and far less help than I have or could dream of. How did they do it? Am I really that much of a wuss?
I love my boys (including my husband) to death! That’s part of the problem. I want to give them so much more! They deserve so much more. They need more. I just don’t have it to give. I love being a mom, but this is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.