There is a picture in my head of the perfect mother. It’s old fashioned and probably completely unattainable, but it’s there. And last week I felt like a complete and total failure. Did I clean the apartment? Nope. Make the bed? Nuh uh. Pay hours and hours of undivided attention to the baby? Dear god, no.
I have my excuses. I was sick. I was having a low week where my meds weren’t working as well as they should. I wasn’t sleeping because Lorelei wasn’t sleeping. I could go on and on.
And I recognize that everyone fails sometimes. Everyone has those weeks when they feel like tearing their hair out or curling up in bed and having a nice long cry. I just feel like I have those weeks much more often than I should.
I made the choice to be a stay-at-home mom. I didn’t have to. If I had really wanted to continue working, I could have. I’m lucky that I have a husband who supports my decisions. I know that having one of us at home to take care of her and not have to worry about day care or who has to take off work to be home when she’s sick is going to be a good decision in the long run. However, I hate myself when Brian comes home and the apartment is a mess. I hate it when I say, Let’s order a pizza instead of making a real dinner. I hate it when I call him at work in tears because I feel so overwhelmed by trying to keep another human being entertained for eight hours a day when I can barely keep myself from wanting to stab myself in the eyeballs out of pure boredom. I hate the times when I can’t get her to fall asleep for a nap but I keep trying even though I know it’s useless because I’m so desperate for a few minutes of sleep myself. And then I get more frustrated.
I was really hoping that it would get better. And some days it totally is. With her increasing mobility – despite the massive pain-in-the-ass that is keeping her away from electric cords, the kitty litter box and various other things that a baby shouldn’t be playing with – there is at least more for her to do. She scoots around her room and bats at the spring door stop (She could do that for hours if I let her.) She has perfected the army-boot-camp-stomach-crawl to the point where I could be standing in my bathroom washing my hands and, by the time I’m done, she’s already crawled out of our bedroom and half way down the hall. But some days are so much worse. For example, if I try to take her away from said electrical cords, she will act like it is the end of the world.
I don’t really know where I’m going with all this. But I want to figure this out. I don’t want perfection and I’m sure I will never really be “Super Mom,” but I don’t want to feel like a complete failure. When I say “stay-at-home-mom,” I don’t want people to think I just lay around the house eating bon-bons and watching trashy television (even if that is the case every once in awhile).