Here’s how it sometimes feels to be a mom, and why we can’t seem to call on our support group of other moms when we most need to.
– Everyone else’s kids seem perfect. They’re so good, quiet, smart, well-behaved. Often your tales of having to drag your spawn out of the grocery store while they screamed bloody murder are met with blank stares.
– Since your kids are only kids, you are betting you are the problem. That’s embarrassing.
– There’s a possibility your kids might be the problem. And that’s a problem.
– Sometimes, other moms will commiserate, but their stories never end up with them locked in the bathroom crying and begging for mercy.
– In this way, those moms are even harder to talk to because they actually deal with the same bullshit you do, and they can hold it together and lovingly nurture their babes, instead of dialing the circus over and over again as they rock back in forth in their bathroom full of tears.
– In the back of your mind, you’re sure this is actually a normal, everyday problem and you’re just being dramatic. You don’t want people to think you think you’re special or a mommy martyr or anything.
– In the other back of your mind, you fear this is actually not even close to normal, that no one has to deal with this issue like you do. And you don’t want people to know you accidentally gave birth to a sociopath.
– You’re the mom, you should know what to do. When you don’t know what to do, it should be for cute things, like, which cloth diaper covers are the best for baby skin. If you don’t know what to do with your own damn child, you fail. Goodbye.
– You don’t want people to know you did the wrong thing. Again.
I don’t really have anything to say about this list I’ve made. I’m just throwing out ideas as to why moms might not feel like they can use their supportive friends and family sometimes.
Oh, I would like to say that all of those things are wrong and hogwash, obviously. But that doesn’t negate the fact that they can exist as thought-patterns in the brain of a frustrated, overworked mother.