Being a mom is tough. It is a non-stop, exhausting, clusterfuck of human emotion with almost zero appreciation. Every single day involves crying and pouting and yelling … sometimes from me, sometimes from the kids. It’s really just unpredictable madness. There are still those moms who won’t admit that they have been bested by tiny humans. I, personally, can’t be friends with those women.
I have decided that I’m only going to be friends with other moms who are willing to admit what a shitshow it all is. Those other ladies who talk about only the constant joys and wonders of motherhood are in deep denial and I don’t enjoy being friends with liars. I like the kind of mom friends who will call little Billy an asshole behind his back and who will openly admit to hiding in the laundry room while ugly crying and eating their kids Teddy Grahams. I like the ones who will commiserate over boxed wine while the kids play video games and rot their brains. Those are my people.
Ok, ok… I guess maybe some moms really do have it all together, but I still don’t want to hand out with them. I’ll be jealous and hateful and I don’t need more people making me feel inadequate. I do plenty of that on my own. I’ll just admire y’all from afar, thank you very much.
When my husband and I first met three and a half years ago, I already had these tree little people who call me mom. He, a single 31-year-old man with no kids of his own, said to me once, “You must really have it all together and know what you’re doing.” I replied that I had no clue what I’m doing and I’m scared every day that I’m ruining all three of him. He claims that brutal honesty is what made him fall in love with me. I’m not sure about all that, but sixteen years of parenting makes you just blurt out the truth. It’s too exhausting to try to keep up with a lie.
Hang in there folks…it’s almost bedtime.