I love being a mummy. But there are times I just wish for a day.
One day when I could not be just a parent. ‘Mother’ changed from what I was TO someone, a role, to being what I AM. All-encompassing it can feel sometimes like it is the only thing I am.
Mother when I wake, a working mother in the office, mummy after school and, in the night, ‘mum’ is what is shouted by a little voice in the darkness.
A day I don’t look in the mirror and think, Christ you look tired…also you have porridge on your only clean jumper. At least you hope its porridge.
One day to sleep in, to eat my own breakfast, to not rush, or repeat, or carry 1000 things to the car. To not think about appropriate activities and gym classes, school runs and head lice.
I love being a mummy, it is a precious y word. It is joy. But being a mummy is also hard.
Huggies adverts lie. All my picture perfect family postcards got ripped, milk spilt on them. Lost behind the back of the sofa with odd cars, socks and sticky things.
I wish for one day of not worrying if my son is happy, if I am a good mummy. If I am feeding him the right things, buying the right toys, giving the right answers to the right questions. Using up all of my psychological energy through the day so the gauge is in the red and it has time to barely refill ready for the next.
One day not filled with a symphony of cries and shouts and bribes.
Let’s face it playing transformers for three hours is not the most stimulating activity for someone over the age of 12.
One night of sleep, the type you had before you were a parent when you drifted off deeply as soon as your head sunk to the pillow and your eyes fluttered closed. A night where you are not woken in the early hours by a little shadow by your bed telling you there is an angry stegosaurus in the cupboard.
I want a day to have a wee alone. To drink a hot cup of tea.
I can want a day and still love my son more than I can describe.
A day, not because I am bored, or ungrateful, or sad. Though some days I feel exhausted, frustrated. Like I am alone and panicked and the only parent alive that just put on the Tv for 20 minutes so I can cook tea without having to simultaneously play batman, do laundry, and answer 200 questions.
I am not saying I should get a reward, a break, a treat, praise. Not trying to flee from my responsibilities. I would not change my motherhood status, the sick on my jeans and the rings around my eyes for anything. Nor is this the rant of an ingrate.
Parenthood is a gift.
Every moment my son is the first thought in my mind, my love and energy are his. I just want a day, to gently put my arms around myself and remember me. That I exist when I take off my mummy shoes and don’t disappear like smoke into the autumn night.
What would you do with yours?