Another Side: Blame

This post, written early this year, is the second in this series.

from here

Last year Alan asked me, “Do you want to be a stay-at-home mum?” It was the first time anyone had asked me that question (I’d never even asked myself that question), despite the fact that it’s been four years since we found out we were pregnant with Moses. We’d just assumed that that’s the way it’d be, and adapted our lives accordingly – Alan continued to pursue his goals, and I put mine on hold.

Sometimes – often, recently – I hate being at home with Moses and Hazel. I feel guilty saying that, and when people ask how life is with two kids, I say, “It’s hard!” In those moments when I feel tireder than ever and Mo’s asking me to play The Cat Game for the 17th time in a row or Hazel wakes up just as I lie down for a nap, though, I don’t think, “Man, this is hard!” I think, “I hate this. I don’t want to be here anymore.” And I hate that it feels wrong to admit that I think it sucks. I breezed through with Mo; this feeling is new. Despite my feminism, I feel like I should be able not only to do this, but to enjoy it. I HAVE THE RIGHT BODY PARTS.

On a typical morning, Moses wakes up cranky. He has two timeouts before breakfast. The whole day suddenly stretches out before me as I work out how many minutes it will be until Alan leaves for work (15) and then how many hours it will be until Alan gets home (9 and a half), and I think, This is impossible. We’re not going to make it through today. I can’t do this. It’s 7 o’clock in the morning and I’ve already been up for 2 hours, after having woken twice in the night to feed Hazel. We kiss daddy goodbye, I eventually put Hazel to asleep, and then when Moses asks me for something to eat I tell him he can have morning tea after I’ve had a quick shower. He asks me for something to eat again before I get into the shower, and again when I’m washing my hair. He comes in a third time as I’m getting dressed, and asks again, “Can I have something to eat now, Mummy?”

I‘m two people at once a lot of the time. There’s the outer Me who’s fairly serene if a little tetchy every now and then, the one who answers, “YES, darling! As soon as I’m dressed I’ll get you some morning tea!” And then there’s the inner Me, the frustrated and exhausted one, the one who says in my head the things I’m so tempted to scream out loud: “What BEEPING part of ‘When I’m out of the shower’ do you not BEEPING understand?! Can you not see that I’m halfway through getting my BEEPING clothes on?! This is your BEEPING morning tea and I haven’t even eaten any BEEPING breakfast yet, for BEEP’s sake!”
 
RRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGHHHH!

But it’s not Mo’s fault, he’s just a three-year-old, who has no concept of time and really, really likes his daily crackers and muffin.

Meanwhile, my boob’s engorged after days of frenzied feeding on Hazel’s part. It’s all, “Okay, I’m ready to feed now!” and Hazel’s like, “No thanks, I’m not really interested in food today, I just want to sleep,” and my boob’s like, “WTF?! I’m in pain here! You can’t just order milk and then not drink the milk!” It’s hard to focus on staying calm and sweet when my boob’s yelling at me/the baby. But it’s not Hazel’s fault, she’s just doing what babies do. And it’s not my boob’s fault, it’s just doing what boobs do. Who’s left to blame? I need a pet. Except that THEN THERE’D BE ANOTHER LIVING THING RELYING ON ME.

It’s not even 10am yet. There are still over seven hours until help arrives. So, no, I don’t want to be a stay-at-home mum. Not today. Probably not tomorrow, either.

Thanks for asking.