I just turned 37.
Wow. I just said that out loud and it sounded weird.
I have three kids, all girls, ages 3.5, 2, and 7 months. In less than four years, I endured three pregnancies and brought three beautiful babies into the world.
Now, I’m learning, that was the easy part.
I saw something funny online the other day, as people were posting dozens of internet memes about Daylight Savings Time. You know, how when you’re a parent it doesn’t mean anything, you get zero extra sleep, blah blah blah. But my favorite was an illustration of a blonde chick with a martini and a tired expression, and the text read: Don’t forget to turn your clocks back. I’m turning mine back to when I was 20.
That made me start to ponder how different my life is now compared to 17 years ago. It also made me long for the days when the only person I had to take care of was myself.
I love my kids. I really do. But man, parenthood is hard. And you don’t really get exactly how hard it is until you’re in the weeds in a situation where your oldest, newly potty-trained, is screaming at you to come help her in the bathroom, while the two year old is drawing on the wall with a green Sharpie (thanks, husband) and the baby is wailing in her bouncer because it’s time for a bottle.
I work full-time, so this isn’t my life every single day. But the weekends are challenging, especially since I have a spouse who travels for work and I’m often left to fend for myself with three little people who need my constant attention.
My weekends used to look a little something like this. Friday after work would be happy hour with friends that may or may not have turned into a late night. Saturday I could sleep until I woke up . . . no alarm needed and no reason to have to be awake. When I did finally rise, I could go for a run or hit the gym. Then I could run errands, go shopping, grab a coffee with my best friend, go to a movie, take a nap . . . basically, anything in the world I wanted to do, I could do.
Currently, my weekends are the opposite. We aren’t at the point where our kids are bouncing to a hundred different activities. No, now the struggle is figuring out how to get through the day. They’re up at dawn, usually before six o’clock. Before I can even have my coffee, they’re bored and need me to entertain them. They want breakfast. And milk. And a snack. And a paper towel because they spilled their milk. Then they want more milk. And their stuffed animal from upstairs. And another snack. And it goes on and on. Sometimes I get so fed up that I don’t care if they watch hours of Disney Junior as long as they stop repeating, “Mommy!” four million times. There’s also almost always a fight over a toy, which leads to tears, and someone usually falls down, resulting in more tears, and then usually I end up in tears myself.
When we make it to noon, I feel like I’ve won a battle. Yes! Naptime!! Although that doesn’t mean as much now as it used to since only the middle one naps consistently.
The afternoon is more of the same. Tears, “Mommy!”, someone face-planting in the kitchen, spilled milk, explosive diapers, endless Mickey Mouse, and the entire contents of the pantry being moved to the playroom by my toddlers while I’m focused on the baby.
I know, I need to get them out of the house. And I honestly have every intention to do so as each weekend approaches. But then it’s either raining, or it’s too cold, or I simply don’t have the energy (or the confidence or skill) to wrestle all three of them into the van to go anywhere. Not alone.
People tell me it won’t be like this forever. That this is just a stage where I feel like I’m drowning, and eventually, I’ll come up for air.
So in the meantime, I try. I try to be a good mom even though I constantly feel like I’m failing. I try to stay positive when the clock seems to be moving backwards. And I try to enjoy my time with them since I work so much during the week.
It’s become apparent that I am not wired to be a stay-at-home mom. Mad props to the moms who do that, because it is truly the most thankless job around. You go, Girls. I’m amazed at your ability to do what I do on the weekends seven days a week. Bless you.
So yeah, I’m 37. My weekends are different. My outlook is different. My life as a whole couldn’t be more different.
And while it’s definitely harder than I ever expected, it’s also a million times sweeter.
Maybe one day, I’ll regain myself. But for now, I have come to accept that I live for them.
