Pin that on your perfect Pinterest-board life, Super Mom.
I f**king love my son; intensely, overwhelmingly, rabidly, with-every-last-frayed-fiber-of-my-being love him. I would rip off my own arms and feed them to the wolves for that boy. And it is the intensity of that love that makes motherhood such a trying experience for me.
He cries. He wails. He hollers and bellers and shrieks. His tummy always hurts. He's so demanding and nothing ever seems to soothe him or make him happy. He can't help it...he has his mother's puny constitution. A lot of the time there is absolutely nothing I can do to ease his pain or to make him smile.
Good Lord, it makes me want to throw myself under a passing cow truck. I'm his mom for shit's sake...that's my job. The whole purpose of my existence is to care for that little man and provide for his every need. In my mind, to fail to soothe him is the most epic failure I could ever perpetrate (clearly he also gets his penchant for dramatics from me). Sometimes all I want to do is paint my nails or go brush the muddy crust out of my horses' ratty tails or sit in the bath until my fingers are prune-y. But that sweet little boy just cries.
My mom and grandma are always telling me to just go do what I need to do, he'll be fine. They love hanging out with Wee Man. But I get this horrid raging guilt because I'm the one who went and got myself knocked up therefore I am the one that needs to be there, 24/7, to feed him, change him, rock him, play with him, bounce him, put his woobie back in his mouth...that is my responsibility and I can't stick my family with it.
It's ridiculous, of course. If I were to try to keep up with that charade I'd literally die of the exhaustion and heartbreak. Maybe someday I'll get it through this blessed rock-hard skull of mine. His Grandma and Grandma-grandma happily change diapers and give bottles and burpings while I go walk with the dog or drive to Sonic for a Dr. Pepper. I take baths long enough for the water to at least get cool before I get done, and sometimes at 4 in the morning when Sam will just not go to sleep, my own mommy dries my tears and tucks me in to bed and rocks my baby so her baby can sleep until the next feeding (postpartum depression absolutely feeds on exhaustion). Then I wake up in the early morning when there is just enough light to see my son smile that gummy smile of his at me, and I go about it all again.
I'm not sure I'll ever be able to stop expecting so much of myself as a mother. I did as much before motherhood and suffered the same crippling effects when I couldn't make things go the way they were "supposed" to. In my mind, I'm smart and capable and so should just be able to do the things that should be done.
Life doesn't work that way...this isn't a mommy blog.
Someday I'll be able to write again about things that don't have anything to do with having a child. Right now, though, that's what consumes me, so that's where the words will come from.
My bath water's getting cold...and I think I hear my baby calling.