Oh, Honestly.

Pic stolen from here

There's a point in every mother's week where The Husband comes home and we greet them at the door, say, "Tag!" and run past them, leaving them with the carnage of the day. I've been known to pull into the driveway after a day of playdates, errands and school pickups, with three whinging, arguing children in the backseat, lean on the horn until The Husband comes running (fearing the worst, no doubt), jump out of the car, motor still idling, and be hiding in the toilet before he can scratch himself.

Some days, I start blogging about how hilariously shitty being a stay-at-home mother is..... and then need to take a break because the rage is too close to the surface. (This is my life? Are you serious? Oh my God, I used to be good at something.) Some days, it's hard to find the hilarious among all the shit.

Irony. That's what motherhood is, a big fat vindictive case of irony. I remember in that thing I used to have called a career, I was good at dealing with difficult people and complex situations. Now I find myself daily facing off against a four year old - and losing. I remember thinking I'd never be one of those mothers screeching at their kids in public places. This week at playgroup I scared the bejeezus out of everyone else' kids when I lost patience at my selectively hearing impaired dreamchild and screamed in that voice-breaking kind of way, "THREE YEAR OLD GET YOUR BACKSIDE OVER HERE BEFORE I HIT IT SO HARD YOUR FUTURE HUSBAND WILL BE ASKING YOU WHOSE HANDPRINT YOU HAVE TATTOOED ON YOUR ARSE!!!" Come to think of it, I was going to be one of those parents who never smacks. Calm down, people. It's still legal. I checked.

I remember coming home from work some days and saying, "I hate my job." It's a little uncool to say that when your job is your kids. But, some days, I hate my job. Someone said to me today how much they love going to work. Going to work. And coming home. Gosh, I remember that. I immediately felt a bit defensive and said, "I'm not ready to go back to work, I love staying home." And I do. Sometimes. And sometimes, I don't.

I really enjoy blogging. I love that people enjoy reading along. I like picking through the good and the bad of each day, finding the stories that might make someone smile, or lift their mood, or make them feel normal, like it's okay to feel the way they feel. But unfortunately, not every day is funny, or nice, or makes me want to make other people feel okay. Sometimes, I just want to be able to write, today, I hated my job. Glad that's over. My throat hurts from the effort of not crying and I'm feeling full from hiding in the pantry and eating all the almonds. I'm tired, I'm overwhelmed at how much mess they make, I just want to go to bed but the sooner I do, the sooner tomorrow will come and to be honest, I'm not sure I want to do tomorrow at all.

So, I'm sorry this post isn't funny. I'm sorry it doesn't have a nice, neat, happy ending. Not all days in the life of a mother have happy endings. I hope that's okay. I hope it's normal. I hope my children won't be scarred by having a mother who doesn't always see the positives. I hope they know how much I love them, even when I'm not loving being around them. 

Graffiti For The Soul.

I had a bad day today. This happens more frequently than I would like. I had big plans to keep the kids engaged, happy, creatively entertained. Painting pottery, sensory table activities, helping me with chores (they are still at the age where this is 'fun'.)

Then, they turned on me. Ambushed me. Things went from calm and happy to mutinous in a heartbeat. The trigger (a simple request: clean your play area, then we will start painting) was pulled, the stage was set. They caught each others' eyes, a signal passed between them, war was declared. The following three hours left me cowering in fear, rocking in the foetal position, completely and utterly beaten. The Dad was called home from work, 'discipline' was dished out, toys confiscated ('thrown in the bin'), privileges withdrawn. All this was met with indifference, approval even. ("That's ok, Mum, some other little girl can HAVE my toys. I don't mind.")

The pre-schoolers won. They always win.

Parenting books lie. They say that children are not our enemy, they do not misbehave to 'get at us'. That they are not manipulative. They lie. My children are experts in the arts of war. They know when to fight, when to submit, when to cry, when to yell. They know my weaknesses, have studied them intensively over their short lives, know how to use them to their advantage. All my tactics are rendered useless in the face of this seemingly innocent army, this grubby faced, determined opponent.

My children may not be my enemy. But they sure as hell act like it.

Blogging is like graffiti for the soul, an act of rebellion and selfishness in the daily grind of parenting. Your home may be peaceful and calm, it may be a den of conflicting strong personalities like mine. Whatever it is, step inside my bubble and either commiserate wholeheartedly with me or marvel at how one mother could continually get it so, so wrong.