Confessions of a Stay At Home Mom

It's Monday. The Monday after daylight savings has sprung forward. Not that I could even tell. My 10 month old son doesn't sleep well, so neither do I. I knew that motherhood was going to be hard. Everyone had told me as much and I believed them. I just wasn't prepared for how hard. I wanted a baby so bad and I was going to be the perfect mom and love every minute of it. I had struggled too long to let fussy days and sleepless nights bother me.  

I was stupid. Living in a naïve dream land.  There are days, like today, when it's all too much. The fibromyalgia putting my body through hell, the four dogs that always seem to bark every single time the baby falls asleep for a nap; waking him, the endless list of chores I will never accomplish, and the ridiculous expectations (both of myself and of others) that I will never live up to. I can't work a “normal" job because I am too unreliable so I am a stay at home mom. I am the chick you ignore or make fun of as you scroll through facebook because she sells for a direct sales company. I am the one you judge for always missing social events.  

Today, I hate being me. Today, I hate being a sahm. Today, I just can't take it anymore. I am a failure and I am broken. My body has betrayed me and the constant pain has wore me down. I tell the dogs I am going to get rid of them if they bark again although I never would. I plead with my son, as we both cry in the floor, to just let go of me long enough so that I can put on some pants and maybe go to the bathroom. He doesn't listen. I place him in his crib and walk away as he screams bloody murder and sobs uncontrollably. I put on some pants. Not real ones, but more pjs. Real clothes are rarely worn. I go to the bathroom. My son is still wailing and I think how much of a horrible mother I am. I look in the mirror at my dark circles and a face I barely recognize and completely lose my composure. I am a horrible mother and I do not deserve him. 

I take my son in my arms as we both cry. When he realizes that I have tears streaming down my face, he stops crying. He looks at me with suck intention, puts his tiny hand to me cheek, and smiles. Then he hugs me. In this moment I am overcome with admiration and love for my son. Nothing else matters in that sweet little window of time. Not the bills that are piling up or the mountains of dishes and laundry left undone. Not anything, but those sweet little arms around my neck.  

I have no idea how I am going to do this. How am I suppose to handle the illness, the baby, the dogs, the husband, the bills, the housework? I am not that strong. All I know is that I will. And so we play.