paradoxical

Sometimes motherhood is damn hard.


Phew.  Like most tough things, but real things, this too can be good to get off the chest.  I never doubted it would come with challenges; I worked with children for years informally and professionally, but at the end of a long day, even the frustrating children went home with someone else.  And I can't deny that I haven't said it before - but more in passing or in jest, certainly not in such a serious tone that would identify deficit in one entity I was sure of all of my life.  A tone that would prove guilt or failure - two major themes of my personal self-destruction over the years, and to confess to it fully would generate a catharsis by which I might not be prepared to stand.


The pressure of the word is large in itself.  I actually just Googled "motherhood," and it includes the verbatim, boring phrasing: "state and/or quality of being a mother."  And then, just thrown in all casual, I see by the relative quotations section:  "The hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world." [William Ross Wallace]  Holy cheese, no wonder I am (and so many others) are in such a flustered flurry!  "...that rules the world." ???  Okay, so his poem is in praise, but, come on.  Us women - I, woman - fear most in life my own let downs.  *Note: yes, most of that is still on me, outside of this subject alone, and for another post(s)/mental health professional to help me work through*


This morning, over your homemade eggs and cinnamon rolls, dear Elliot, you decided I was not to be a part of what was intended to be a family breakfast.  Moreover, when I am struggling to put in your hair elastic - which, I'm sorry, may as well be an Olympic sport without the addition of you throwing your body around in the high chair like an ocean seal - you are also complaining to your Papa, trying to hit me, and sometimes bite.  And this is the hard part on which I am already ranting?!??  Crap.

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Cut to 5:15 pick-up time.


My heart mellllllttttssss.  With a knock-knock on the door to her classroom, I hear one of her teacher's sing, "Elllllee - who's here?"  Surely both of us with eyes darting, searching the scene for one another, only to embrace with the glimmers in our pupils, and cheeks raised in smiles, dear Elliot, you squeal with glee.  You sit kicking again in a high chair, although this time it is surely out of joy, and my body fills with it thereafter.


We sing together in the car ride home, talk and jibber-jabber about our days, like we're lifelong friends, and have escaped any sort of confrontation from the morning of (which perhaps, was in my own head).  Paradoxical, motherhood is.  On to a bath, splishin' and a'splashin', and finally snuggled up with some books to tuck her in.  Feelings overwhelmed and deep breathing continues from other daily missteps, but this journey of being a parent is at least more understood for tonight.