Real Mothering Hurts

Dogs teach children lessons a parent never could.

he hates to admit it, but he loves his mumma taking photos

It can be hard not to feel dejected at times, beaten within an inch of my life by the constantness that is motherhood. I sit here failing to grasp just how I could articulate what it is to be a mother. For all its beauty and for all it’s overwhelming purpose and simplicities, motherhood, leaves you with pangs of defeat, moments where no attempt no matter how great could ever abate those feeling of disenchantment one simple moment can bring you.

I spoke with one of my friends just the other day. We spoke of how as parents we unite, yet as mothers we can at times feel so alone, so isolated. What do you mean? You might ask. Well what I make reference to is that part of mothering that ceases to take pause, the constantness. That part where it is always mum as option A, dad as option B.

I sat at home the other day, writing, trying my best to get in the ‘zone’ and I suppose truly, it was a fail on my part to even assume that was possible, to get into to any form of zone with little feet parading around the house. What wore me thin more than anything else though, was that although their father sat almost less than 3 meters from me, with them whilst they watched some afternoon cartoons, it was me they proceeded to come up to an ask, for permission, for help, to inquire, to dob. I found myself in states of complete disenfranchise. How could mothering be such a menial task! How could everything I love, everything that fills me with that heart wrenching love, also take me to some of my darkest parts of myself? I sat that disillusioned with the revelation that this is the mothering that is not talked about. This is not what they tell you about in parenting classes, or on those heartfelt blogs about the authentic, totally enamoring gift of parenting. And truly I love my children, that is not to be questioned, what I question instead is the ability to love myself, and to love it on my own terms, to be able to be anything other than mum all of the time. To have those moments which solely are mine, to have moments where dad is chosen first, if not purely out of proximity.

I am one of the lucky ones, I have an amazing husband and brilliantly engaged father – he is cooking AND doing the dishes as I type here fervourously. So why do they choose me, why do I have the constantness?

Why because I am mum, and that is what we do without question of condition.

It will abate with time, I know… I hope. And in the shadows of that loss, years from now, I know I’ll draw a tear as I find reverie in the times when they needed me so fiercely.

Yet until then, I want you to know, that this is the part of mothering they don’t tell you about. This is the part that hurts, the part where you feel lost and tired, the parts where you can’t wait for bedtime, where you feel disillusioned and lied to. They are transient but they are real. Mothering is real and it is ok to feel defeated because tomorrow you will rise to the occasion once more, you will stand strong and roar your mothering roar to the face of the wind as it dares to call your bluff. Because your love is fierce, your love is strong and it will stand unwavering against those dark moments despite what you think you feel, despite feeling as though you have been crushed by the constantness of mothering. Because that is what we do, we are mothers and our love is never broken, it is only hidden beneath surface, always ready to break free.