Mid-Motherhood-Crisis.

I think I might be having a mid-Motherhood crisis. Unbeknownst to me, it looks like I’ve started the Cert IIIII of Parenting after only just scraping through Cert IIII.
Who runs this shit? I called my local training centre, they laughed & hung up.

Am I the only one out there that thought once we said sayonara to nappies & no sleep that our lives as Mothers would be significantly easier?

I totes did. Fuckwitery at its finest.

Turns out, babies are just the warm up. I thought my children would hit a certain age of independence & we would cruise along the coast, sing made up songs about family love, gleefully laughing, while they told me how lucky they are to call their Mother their best friend & I’d lovingly reply “No son, I’m the lucky one” & then our eyes would meet & the car would be full of warm fuzzies.
Don’t worry, I’m worried about my mental health too.

Instead of the warm fuzzies, I get anxiety every time we get in the car. And the only songs they make up, are about farts or football. And there’s minimal gleeful laughing & maximum crying, yelling & fighting with arm contortion skills that I never knew existed in me.

You’re not a fully fledged parent until you’ve swiped the backseat, left & right, in the hope of connecting with a misbehaving child.

And while they may sleep all night now, sometimes I look at them while doing so & all I can see is their attitudes rapidly recharging ready for another day of having to do fuck all for themselves & feeling hard done by.

Instead of putting up with shit coming out of their backsides, I now have to put up with the shit that comes out of the mouths & it’s far nastier than anything they produced anally as babies. It’s usually something along the lines of how hard done by they are. How much I suck. How bored they are. How so & so has this or that & they don’t. How I never let them do anything. My favourite though would have to be when they complain about how I never buy them anything..

While they eat the food I brought especially because it’s their favourite..
Under the expensive feather doona I brought them to ensure they don’t freeze at night..

With the favourite of their 9 footballs on their lap..

While they watch the Foxtel I pay for because God forbid they live in a world without 2,000 TV channels full of pure shit..

Don’t even get me started on electricity!

Fuckers.
They are kids. I don’t expect them to worship me daily for providing them with lights that work & clean water that runs freely. I’m certain they aren’t the only children that don’t understand the luxuries of this. But come on kids! I’m doing my best.
They give 0. Fucks & appreciation.

I am adjusting, not always successfully, to the new stage of parenting that has recently slapped me in the face. It’s proving to be challenging. I feel like I just became qualified to keep a baby alive & now shit has gone to the next level.
I’m going to say it, cue the judgey cunts..
I’m finding these days WAY tougher.
For me, with my babies, I remember feeling exhausted, overwhelmed but in a state of europhia. Something else kept me going. Their sweet little faces helped. Their scent, which I’m sure is courtesy of the angels. My biggest complaint was the state of my vagina & lack of trust in my bladder. These days the only thing that keeps me going is wine & the boys going to school 6 hours a day.
Sometimes in that order.
These days I am still exhausted & overwhelmed but you can also add feeling unappreciated, unloved & unsure.
And yes I know I’m loved, those 4 seconds are the best part of my day.

Our relationship has changed. I know that’s normal. I’d be worried if it didn’t. But it crept up really fast. Master 7 won’t let me kiss him at school anymore, whereas once upon a time I couldn’t leave until I had. That sucks.
I’ll never get that time back again.

I’m trying to make peace with that.
Sometimes I look at their faces full of attitude & wish I’d kept them on the boob forever. You can’t hate the tit that feeds you.
In my desperation, I feel like relying on me for sole survival would rise appreciation levels more so than relying on me to drive them to footy.
Yep, still concerned about my mental state. Not surprisingly, more so.

They don’t always laugh at my jokes or silly faces anymore. They actually ask me not to with a look of embarrassment. They slam doors. They prefer to be with their friends. They whinge, fuck me they whinge. They don’t look at me like they did as babies when I’d walk into their room after their nap, they look at me like I’m an alien life form sent to ruin their lives.
Or maybe that’s how I look at them!
Either way, this is tough. I am not taking away from how ridiculously hard it is to have a baby. Especially your first. That shit is also whack, a different whack though. A less whackier, whack.
A very dear friend of mine recently had her first baby and I remember talking to her about driving with a crying newborn.
We’ve all been there. It’s so horrible.

In that moment, I felt relief at the thought that would never be me again.

And then we drove home.
I’m adding naive to my CV.

The threenager had a harmonica.

Cheers Mum. I owe you. A harmonica up the butt.

Master 7 & Master 10 were fighting & telling the threenager to shut up so they could dob on each other while I told them to shut up.

0.

“Please lower the decibels you darling creatures” just doesn’t have the same effect sometimes.

Then, like they were best friends, they all broke out into a backseat choir similar to the Von Trapp’s but with way less talent & yodelled “Na Naaa Na Naaa Nanana Naaa Na Naaaa Na Naaaa Na” for what felt like an hour.
We are talking peak hour traffic, people.
Suddenly a warm, little, delicious newborn in a state of despair, didn’t seem so bad.
Yesterday we got rid of the high chair. This is a big deal.
Done. Gone. Goodbye. I am now the owner of 3 humans big enough to sit at the table.

I feel like I need a “No babies onboard” sticker for my car.
The only thing in my life now, that reminds me of babies are the threenagers night nappies & my nipples in a hot shower on a cold morning. Ouch. I’m certain the left one is beyond repair & dying a painful death.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want anymore babies. Especially for financial & vaginal reasons. But it definitely feels like the closing of a very significant door in my life. I’m locking it shut, tying a brick to the key & throwing it in the ocean, but it does feel weird knowing the next 10 years will be spent convincing my children that I’m not the enemy, after spending the first 5 years of their lives convincing them that there are other life forms out there, other than me. Their Mummy.
I think we need to be better prepared for that instead of the 17,000 baby books that contradict each other & rarely offered me help. Anyone that thinks having a baby is going to easy, shouldn’t be allowed to have one.
If I was to write a baby book it would say.. “You think this is bad. It gets worse. I promise that this time will pass. They will grow & so will their attitudes. Cuddle them tightly. Cherish the fact that they adore you. Stock up on wine”

And I have to say, I consider myself someone who has good children. Still assholes at times, but no more assholey than any other child.
Except the real asshole ones. They are to be avoided.

No, I’m not one of those Mums who thinks their children walk around with invisible angel wings, I’m sure we’ve established that. But they are lovely children.

Especially for anyone that isn’t me.

Its transition time. It’s time to adjust the seatbelt & tighten it up. It’s time to let go of what was & embrace what is.
It is time to reassess. And not only my alcohol intake.
My main goal is to get my children through their lives with a good self esteem. Anything else is a bonus. And I’m going to make it another goal that I get them through their lives and make sure I have a good self esteem.
To not take everything they do personally.

To be ready for what the next stage has in store.

To be ready for the toughest part of it all.

To remember what a giant sack of shit I was to my Mum & pray to the Lord every day that karma doesn’t bite my fat ass to hard.
(On a serious note, I am in no way, shape or form discrediting the enormous struggles some Mothers with babies face. Personally, I have never dealt with anything as serious as PND & one of my biggest pet hates is people talking about something they have absolutely no idea about. So I won’t. And I don’t. But I sincerely salute you all)

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