Wishful Thinking

I have had some recent indicators that I am not enjoying motherhood as much as I would like.  

One morning, I ran to our local grocery store to pick up some eggs and milk for breakfast.  I dashed in and dashed out, ducking my head as the rain poured down on my way back to the car.  The day that followed was how rainy days usually play out in our house - the boys bouncing off the walls, creating mass chaos with toys and projects made of trash, fighting over everything, driving me crazy.  When I started to prepare dinner and realized that I was missing a key ingredient, I was initially irritated, but then realized it was a great opportunity to get out of the house.  “I have to run to Key Market and pick up whipping cream!” I called out to my husband, then bolted out the front door, by myself.

When I entered the store, lovely calming music was playing over the loudspeaker.  Polite and friendly clerks greeted me.  Everything was tidy and shiny clean, organized in perfect, pleasing rows.  The clerk who had rung up my milk and eggs that morning was still there.  “Back again, I see!” she said cheerfully as she ran my items over the scanner.  

I was suddenly struck with envy.  She had been here all day, in this peaceful, clean, organized, quiet place, interacting with adults.  I wished in that moment that I, too, could be a Key Market employee.  It wouldn’t matter what my job was - stocking shelves, ringing up customers, setting out produce - it seemed so much easier, so much more desirable than the exasperating, loud, difficult day I had just endured at home.

Another indicator of my discontent occurred at a party for one of my friends.  I was chatting with her sister, who had a son nearly the exact same age as my oldest.  We made small talk as we munched on chips and salsa, our conversation punctuated by many interruptions from my boys.  She graciously helped load a plate of food for Mason, brought Carter some toys, and found a book for Jonah to read.  I realized that her helpfulness was made possible in part by the absence of her son.  “Where’s your little guy?” I asked.

“Oh, he’s with his dad,” she replied.  “He goes there every weekend.”

I again experienced a pang of envy.  While I did not covet the issues that had led to the demise of their marriage, and had no intention or desire to be divorced from my husband, this idea of shared custody sounded extremely appealing.  A built-in, regular, substantial break from the kids, when they were completely out of the house and I didn’t have to pay someone to take care of them?  It was completely irrational, but for a brief moment I was jealous.

Finally, I knew I was in a bad state when we were driving home from a road trip to the Pacific Northwest.  We had already spent hours upon painful hours in the car getting there, the boys had been cooped up inside for three days because of rainstorms and below freezing temperatures, and we were now all trapped in our minivan, littered with fast food wrappers and crumbs, for the long haul home.  As we left Portland under dull gray skies, a few snow flurries dotting our windshield, I saw a group of men wearing fluorescent orange vests picking up trash along Interstate 5.  The white van parked next to them had a large sign on the back that said, “INMATE WORK CREW.”

“Do you think the inmates actually like coming out here to pick up trash, even in the freezing cold?” I asked my husband.

“Oh yeah,” he answered.  “It’s a chance to get out of their cells and do something different.”

“I guess so,” I said, but then as the boys began shrieking at each other again over something completely inconsequential, my thinking shifted.  “Solitary confinement actually sounds pretty appealing to me right now,” I said.  “I could hang out there for a few days for sure.  I think I would love it, actually.”

Clearly, I need some more solitude, babysitting hours, or the help of modern medication.  

I wish I loved being a mom more than I do.  I wish I could relate to other moms who gush about how they love being home with their children, who genuinely feel that life doesn’t get any better than playing Barbie with their daughters or baking cookies with their children.  I wish I had compliant, mellow children who could meekly reply, “Okay, Mama!” when I ask them to do simple things like put their shoes on or go to the bathroom before we leave the house.  I wish I had children who had loving, peaceful relationships with one another, who could go off and play for hours without requiring intervention every two minutes.

That is not, however, the reality that I face with my three spirited boys.  And try as I might, I am not wired to embrace constant chaos, noise, conflict, and destruction.  For me, stay-at-home motherhood is both too much, and not enough.

I don’t know how to change the realities of our family, and I don’t know how to learn to love those realities, or even be less bothered by them.  All I can do is continue to pursue the things that help me stay sane: swimming, working, writing, quilting, watching escapist movies, reading, venting to empathetic friends, and going away without my children.  And I am trying to focus on to the moments of motherhood that I do love: the creative and funny projects Jonah creates, the sparkle in Mason’s eye when he’s excited about something, the way Carter tucks his head on my shoulder when he’s tired or hurt or just wants to be close to his mommy.  They are my boys, and I love them, even if motherhood itself is a struggle.