Simply Mother

At least, that’s what my five-year-old told me tonight. Jade went to bed a bit early so Sarah and I were reading our own books on my bed for a bit until she got sleepy. She put one of her books down and said,

“I’m going to snuggle up next to you for a bit, and then go get another book. It’s warm next to you. I think you make warm air.”

***

By the way, motherhood? Is hard some days. Maybe it’s just personhood, actually, and then, I guess I’m not really saying much either way because everybody knows life isn’t always peachy. What I guess I want to say is: I had a hard day today.

I can’t even pinpoint why exactly. No one was especially grouchy or difficult. There weren’t a ton of pressing things we had to accomplish today.

I guess there are a lot of things on me “get done soon” list, and that’s creating some stress.

Money, or the current lack there of–which I actively try to avoid thinking about because there isn’t really anything I can do about it, and it just depresses me–is stressful, especially this time of year when all I can think about are all the things I’d like to get (well, make, but making requires getting first) for people.

But nothing really accounts for the little breakdown I had in the middle of the day today. I’m thinking maybe I just needed some attention, because when Matt finally came to my aid, all it took was a warm hug and some small reassurances and I immediately felt back to normal.

Unfortunately there had to be a little bit of drama getting to that point. I realized today that I am so much like a child. And I know I have been extremely emotional with this pregnancy, but man! I amaze myself with my immaturity sometimes!

I get so upset, seemingly over nothing, although I know it’s not really nothing, just as it’s never nothing when children seem to be throwing tantrums over the most minute, ridiculous little things. It’s a big conglomeration of things: probably several days worth of minor emotional wounds and misunderstandings never worked through–all culminating in one trivial setback–a loud “no” from my two-year-old, or an unconcerned glance from my husband (when I think he should be deeply concerned!)–and off I go!

Into the bizarre world of blind emotion, unable to see anything beyond my own pitifulness and utter despair. I don’t know what to do with myself, but something in me knows I need attention. I need loving arms around me, whispering assurances that I’m worth something to someone, that all is not lost because I’m not the perfect wife and mother I strangely think I should be.

But, like I said, I’m like a child and I don’t know what to do with myself. I can’t express this. Instead, I act like a crazy person. This was my breakdown today. Yes, broken dishes were involved. (Thankfully, the children were not in the room, though they weren’t entirely unaffected by my little episode. And at least the older one is aware that her mother broke dishes when she was angry. Yes, awesome example, I know.)

As soon as my husband realized the severity of the situation, he found it in his humble heart to ignore my temporary insanity (especially since my complaints were mostly–and unjustifiably–directed at him), and offer comfort.

It was all I needed. I instantly felt better, swept up the mini-disaster I had created, and moved on with my day.

Now, why do I do this? I mean, don’t worry, it’s not an abnormally frequent sort of thing, but still. This pattern exists (not necessarily to extremes of throwing things!) and it is so similar to what I see in children and I just wonder when am I going to grow up and learn to express myself, to ASK for help directly instead of working myself into a tizzy? To say, hey, I need to talk about this with you, rather than off-offhandedly throw out subtle verbal attacks in an ineffective attempt to heal my own hurts.

Writing about things usually helps me so much, maybe this is the key. Being able to describe the inner-workings of my mind somehow clears things up for me, and it will probably help me recognize the pattern sooner–maybe even be able to do something about it.

Writing has always been therapeutic for me. Thus, my many attempts at blogging. I’ve never actually published anything this personal though, and a little wary about doing so now.

You probably wonder why I even want to. I don’t know, perhaps it’s just a desire to be heard. To possibly find that I’m not alone. That other seemingly normal people sometimes let their emotions get the best of them.

But maybe it’s not that. Maybe I just want to tell my story. The first thing I wrote is probably the most correct: I just want to be heard. By someone. Even if it’s just the ever-anonymous Internet.

So, hear me. Today was hard. I’m not “depressed.” But I have moments. They are awful–and then they’re gone.

I come back to the real world, to the wonderful, honestly blessed life I undeservedly get to live.

I clean the kitchen. I make dinner. I enjoy my kids. We make snowflakes, have friends over, read some books, snuggle. I make warm air. Life is grand.

And some day I’ll be able to remember that, even during the “moments.”

Filed in: family • self-reflection | December 16, 2008