My husband Chris just returned from his annual four-day snowboarding trip with the guys. He is refreshed and pumped and thrilled to see us.
I am exhausted, wrung out like one of those paper towels on the commercials that just keeps on absorbing and cleaning, you can just use that thing for days.
I am like that.
I guess it takes being left to my own devices for a few days, parenting solo, to see clearly just how much motherhood can tax me. With no breaks, no one to absorb some of the neediness and the meal planning and the diaper changing and the “I need a napkin right now’s,” I become more aware of my rapid fraying at the ends. The effort required to stay neutral and kind in the face of both kids demanding precious commodities at the exact same moment – love, tenderness, goldfish crackers – all while I’m still rubbing the sleep from my eyes and pining for a hot shower.
This parenting of young children is not for the faint of heart. Or for the low of energy.
Everyone says this is temporary, this baby and toddler ferris wheel of continuous physical and emotional outpouring; it turns out though, this proves to be cold comfort. For me, at least. It’s tough to embrace the bull that’s taking you for the ride of your life, even though you know that when that eight seconds are over, you’re going to miss them terribly. Yet, when I get a few minutes away from my ride, from my two little calves, it is them that I think of. Unfairly longing for them during my few moments of alone time, missing their little bodies jockeying for position in my lap, breathing into my neck, consuming me with their love.