Hey there, mama. I see you. I see you, holding that wee babe in the corner, shooshing and bouncing and hoping that no one will make any sudden movements or loud noises that will awake sleeping beauty. I see you, with your hair somehow washed, dried and styled. With your real clothes. I see behind your eyes… the tired. No. Scratch that. The exhausted energy seeps out even when you are trying to hide it. I see you . So in love with that baby of yours. But feeling a little lost. And a lot lonely. Even though you’re around people. You’re wondering why it feels so hard. Because you don’t feel like anyone ever said it was this hard. And you see me, with three, and wonder how I’m not falling apart at the seams.
Because, mama. It’s hard. Where you are. It always is. I hate to say that. But especially with that newbie. And this new gig. This new life. This new hood of the mothers that you’ve become a part of. It’s so hard. You love it so. But you’re not the you that you were when you were without your second heartbeat. You know you are changed. You know you can’t go back. And part of you, is totally good with that. Part of you is in love with the squishyness and the late night stillness of the rocking and feeding. And part of you just wants a nap. Your hormones are a mess. Your house… you’re trying to keep it together. Trying to have meals to eat. And conversations that aren’t about the newest member of your tribe. But. It’s. Hard. Don’t let anyone tell you it isn’t. Blissfully hard.
Hey there, mama. I see you. Dropping one. two. three. off at the gym. One in the oven. Desperate to make it to your class on time. Hoping that if the class gets done on time. You will have time for an iced tea. By yourself. A few extra minutes without refereeing and answering why. This was supposed to feel freeing, this part. Right? It shouldn’t feel hard. You don’t have any left in diapers. They don’t need you for their every move. But now. Now they are getting mini-attitudes. You’ve become the grumbling gestapo. The one who has to break up the fights over tiny bricks. The one who has to be there, only for mere seconds, to kiss the boo boo and remind them, you’re okay. But you’re still tired, mama. A little haggard. The attempts at doing the hair and making outfits have made way for your messy mom bun and athleisure wear… 24/7. You wonder where the romance went… and why your sheets have been used more for sleeping than a daily romp. But you know… you want to sleep in that bed because you are exhausted. Exhausted from pouring all your love and wisdom and patience and snuggles into these little people all day. And it gives you this joy that you just can’t find in any other place or thing. And just hoping you’re doing it right. Something. Right. Guess what, mama… you are.
Hey there, mama. I see you. I see you, sitting in your camping chair every weekend at every ballpark from here to Timbuktu. I see you with your calendar. Keeping the kid’s practices. And schedules. And lives. Straight. Keeping your sanity through dinners in the car and logistics discussions with your better half. I see you, loving the game. The pride on your face and in your posts is evident. You adore this phase. But the exhaustion. It’s evident. You are high fiving your husband as your cars leave the garage to head to different events. You are figuring out which registration needs to be in by which date. This was supposed to get easier. They are at the “good ages.” The in-between. And it is easier. In some ways. And you adore the way they are becoming people. But still… you flop into bed at night. They are a full-time job on top of your full-time job. And though you wouldn’t want it any other way, it’s hard.
Hey there, mama. I see you. I didn’t know you were a circus performer. But your juggling is on point. You have work. Band practice. Cross Country. Swimming. And none of those are for you. You have homework to inquire about. You have your own gig which you think you need to be your priority at this point. They’re old enough now that you feel you can gain a little bit of ground back on that front. But you’re exhausted. You’re tired by the end of day’s close. You are wondering why they don’t say thank you. You’re wondering if they talk to their teachers like that. Or their friend’s parents. You’re thinking that you can’t possibly be doing this right. That there are too many outside influences. You’re wondering who they’re always texting. What Snapchat is. Why they care more about that little phone than most other things. You wonder if you are doing even a smidge of it well enough to create functional members of society. Guess what, mama… you are.
Hey there, mama. I see you. They are all out of the nest. And you’re still exhausted. Because it all went so incredibly fast. And they became such cool people in front of you. And just when you started to really see that, it was time for them to go. You’re looking at that guy across the dinner table. You’re wondering if those sheets will start seeing more action. Just like he’s been wondering for a decade. You’re thinking about when you were their age. And the whole world was open to you. You had a hundred directions you could go. And you’re hoping upon all hopes that they choose the right ones. Or at least, that they eventually find their way to one of the right ones. And that you at least instilled in them that they always have home. And you. And you’re wondering, “why does this feel hard?” because it shouldn’t feel harder without them. Because it felt hard with them. Even in the stages where it got easier. You still thought it was a challenge. You still felt tired. And you still felt like it was the best thing you’d ever done. But it’s hard… because through it all, they were your reason. You’re reason for being so tired. You’re reason for loving so hard. You’re reason for so much more than you ever expected before you had two hearts. Or three. Or seven.
You just hope that they always always know how much you loved them. Not that you sacrificed for them. Or that you begrudgingly “gave it all up for them. Or that you were always exhausted. But that you LOVED them. And you love the little world that your family has created in this huge universe. You just hope.
Hey there, mama. It’s all tiring. It’s all hard. We’re all exhausted, no matter the phase. The exhaustion just feels different… takes on a different form… and makes you a different you than you ever knew you’d become.
I see you, mama. You’re getting it right.
