â€œI will punch the first person who says Iâ€™ll miss this.â€ I saw that hashtag on a Facebook post yesterday and literally laughed out loud. The poster, you may have guessed, was a mom at her witâ€™s end. Sheâ€™d taken to Facebook to vent about what we all face as moms â€“ the constant nature of being the
For example, writing this post right now, I feel the need to start out acknowledging how blessed and grateful I am â€¦. Yada, yada, yada.
Why canâ€™t we vent without the judgment? Probably for the very reason we need to vent in the first place â€“ weâ€™re the moms.
Mad About You was a popular TV show, starring Helen Hunt and Paul Reiser, back in the day. I donâ€™t recall a whole lot about the show but thereâ€™s one scene that I can still somewhat see in my head. After years of marriage, the couple finally decides to start a family. At one point, the way I remember it, the wife (Helen Hunt) is nearing the end of the pregnancy, already in the 8th or 9th month, when it
I just spent way too much time on the internet trying to find a clip of that for you with no luck.
My point is this: being â€œthe momâ€ never stops. There are no breaks, no nights off. Iâ€™m well aware that one day all the kids will be grown and moved out; weâ€™ve already got one whoâ€™ll be going off to college in a few short months. But that doesnâ€™t mean that being â€œthe momâ€ ends.
A good chunk of my brainpower each day is dedicated to my kids, regardless of whether they are with me. (In fact, itâ€™s probably more true when theyâ€™re not with me because Iâ€™m worried about where they are/what theyâ€™re doing). I canâ€™t just turn off being the mom.
The other night, I had a migraine â€“ one of those that no amount of medicine or darkness will relieve. But that didnâ€™t stop the â€œmomâ€ calls from my kids.
A kid needs money, help with homework, to tell me something about his/her day, to ask me if he/she can go somewhere. Itâ€™s always â€œMom?â€ I couldnâ€™t even begin to tell you how many times a day I say, â€œAsk your dad.â€ It doesnâ€™t make a lick of difference.
It doesnâ€™t matter that dadâ€™s better at fixing booboos or making sickness go away. It doesnâ€™t matter that dadâ€™s better at cooking dinner or changing high-up lightbulbs. It doesnâ€™t matter that dadâ€™s better at math. Itâ€™s always, â€œMom?â€
And, yeah, one day, Iâ€™ll miss the incessant, â€œMom?â€ And, yeah, Iâ€™m glad my kids want to come to me with stuff. But isnâ€™t it okay that Iâ€™m just a little tired? Isnâ€™t it okay to sometimes want to be the dad?