queen of faff

Former secret writer. This is my rehab.


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Failing at motherhood

I told my husband tonight I felt like I was failing at motherhood. I’d felt that way all day and had been crying before he ever got home from work. I have a three (and a half) year old and a nearly three month old and for the love of whichever god you believe in I don’t know why it feels like I should pretend that I don’t find that hard.

I find it hard to pay my toddler the amount of attention she needs (or just wants?) while at the same time trying to keep on top of the endless laundry. My parents came to visit us today and my mum helped me peg out the washing (the second load of the day as the first load had been in the machine at 8.30am). I cried as she washed my dishes because I felt like I should be able to manage.

When a delivery of boxes to organise our chaotic house turned up and nearly half of them were broken I thought I was going to lose my mind whilst spending ages on hold to sort it out, followed by simultaneously trying to decide which order to tend to my children in whilst tidying up the chaos I had intended to pack away into the boxes and fold yet more laundry because there’s no way in hell I’m getting the iron out.

I’d had the slow cooker on since 10.30 am to make an easy yet nutritious tea, a desperate attempt to wean my toddler off beige and breadcrumb coated food. It was met with a ‘bleugh’ at lunchtime as I showed it to her, followed by a “I’m too tired to eat my tea mummy” at dinner time.

So I retreated upstairs as the tears fell, wondering what I’m doing wrong, wondering why I feel so goddam guilty about finding things so goddam hard. I don’t want to hear how lucky I am, how quickly this will pass, how quickly they will grow or how soon my own children will be saying all this to me. I don’t want to be told I’m selfish because some people can’t have children, I really fucking appreciate mine. I don’t want to be told I made my bed….., because I know, and I wouldn’t change it.

I just want people to talk about how fucking hard it is, how lonely. How one more game of nursery or Topsy and Tim might tip you over the edge and that that’s normal.

So I told my husband I was failing at motherhood today. Largely on account of the amount of guilt I feel at not doing more or better. He asked me how many children I’d washed, dressed and fed today. “Two” I replied though my tears.

“Doesn’t sound like your failing to me”, he said.

Perspective restored.