When I hate being a Mom

Recently, I have read quite a few posts and articles about a paradox of motherhood. 

It goes like this: 

Mom loves kid. 

Mom would not give up kid for anything. 

But Mom hates being Mom. At times. 

And here I was, thinking I was alone. 

And crazy.

And selfish.

There are some days when I want to press the forward button all the way up to bedtime. 

And then I feel guilty because "they grow up so fast and you will miss these days".

Maybe when I am 70, I will have forgotten enough to actually miss these days.

As for now? Not so much.  

These days mean Loud Baby cries about everything.

And whines about the rest.

Example: she asks for small pink ball.

Mommy obliges.

She looks at the ball like it is an offensive object.

"No no" she whines. "I don't want pink ball".

So  Mommy takes it away.

And then she cries because I took it. 

And when I try giving it back, she cries and says she don't want it.

Sigh. 

These days mean Loud Baby won't play on her own for 5 minutes.

These days mean I can't prepare food without her throwing a tantrum on the kitchen floor because I won't let her pour the couscous into hot boiling water.

These days she throws her books and blocks.

These days she spits out her food.

These days she wants to bite and hit people. 

These days she cries because it's Tuesday, and because there's a cloud in the sky, and because grapes are purple (not green), and because she is in the car, and because she is not in the car. 

 

So here are a couple of confessions that will make me eligible for the bad/selfish mom category.

Oh well.

On these days I want to take the day off. 

Maybe two hours? 

I could pass her off to a grandparent or a friend or a sitter without remorse and go take a nap. 

I know bad behaviour comes with the package. 

I know it's in my job description to help her with her tantrums and overwhelming emotions about pink balls. 

I know you can't have only the good stuff. 

I still want to run away and hide until it's over especially after I am out of ideas. 

Speaking about running away, I miss just grabbing my bag, getting into the car and driving to a place.

No checking for sippy cups, snacks, diapers, wipes etc. 

No struggles about getting into the car seat.

No whining from the backseat "Dropped my water/doll/cracker" x 10.

Or deciding to go for a stroll with my husband in the evening. Just like that. 

There is no more "just like that". And I sometimes miss it. 

Lingering in bed in the morning. Just like that. 

Deciding to not go home after all but pop in for a movie.

Being able to see things in a store, not just staring at toddler level and waiting for the next disaster to happen.

Taking a sick day when sick and having peace and quiet and lying in bed. With a book.

So, yes, momminess is not a bed of roses. 

I would love to love every moment of it.

But I don't.

And it's unrealistic to be expected to love it all. 

And, yes, I do miss bits and pieces of my pre-mommy life. 

And, no, I have no idea what I am doing sometimes. 

And, yes, I feel guilty about whatever I just wrote.

Because there are bad things out there, and sick kids, and people who want kids, and abandoned kids and here I am complaining about something that is normal.

It's all a big bucket of craziness. 

But even when angry, and exhausted, and disappointed, and nostalgic and even empty, I still know I love my Loud Baby. 

Even if I can't feel it right then.

Even if I hate being the Mom right then because I am out of energy and ideas and empathy and want some "me" time.

I'll have "me" time when I am older. Too much of it even.

For now, it's baby time.