When your own head is a noisy space...

The wheels were properly falling off yesterday. I had one whinging kid, one crying toddler, one screaming refluxy baby… and it was dinner time… Bible study was at our house after dinner… Oh, and hubby was away for the day, returning home far later than usual.

I actually felt myself drifting off into oblivion – I tried all those techniques they speak of so confidently on the internet – breathe, take a step away, listen to music, walk in the garden. But seriously. Stuff that. I was losing it.

And then I tried to analyse why, in a matter of days, I had gone from über-mom to losing-it-mom. Where did my “pack a picnic and sit on the lawn for hours” demeanour disappear to? I mean, that was me, just last week: a leisurely picnic with three kids and two dogs under the trees at our local park. This mom, who rushed around the kitchen maniacally trying to cater for friends and supper for a family and not feel the guilt of allowing someone else to hold my screaming baby while I panicked about the rest of the home.

When I found the why – it was alarming really. I heard all the voices screaming at me: “We only eat clean,” “Please can I have a decaf,” “You need to make sure your home is where your husband wants to be or else he will stray,” “The Mother sets the tone for the home,” “A man must return from a trip away to a calm home,” “Your children each need quality time with you every single day,” not to mention the smaller voices saying “Breast is best,” “Make sure down there is properly waxed,” “Carbs are bad,” and “Don’t abuse your staff.” I mean, it was a cacophony of unsolicited advice!!!

And the balls were all juggling above my head and some of them were actually balloons and some of them were eggs; some could fall and some would break forever if they did. What a fine line we walk as mothers trying to do it all and appease everyone.

Amidst this chaos, the phone rang at least six times. The doorbell rang. A picture fell from the wall and it’s frame broke. Hubby texted to say he got an earlier flight and was on his way home.

What’s a girl to do?

I simply cried.

While walking outside and breathing deeply and counting to twenty (way past the counting to ten stage!) and tried to silence those damned screaming voices and simultaneously not hear my screaming, whinging, crying spawn.

It's damned near impossible.

Hearing ultimatums that if your dinner isn’t home cooked and delicious, your husband may leave you; by giving your child to a nanny while she cries that she may not recognise you as a source of comfort; that guests coming to your home expect freshly baked, but low carb goods… its all the devil in disguise. Surely, no good can come of it?

So why do we say it to each other? And why, pray tell, do we listen? On a rational day, when I have had more than three hours sleep, I know that a home-cooked plate of scrambled egg on toast will suffice for my husband and mommy will always be the best place for a baby to be, but when you’re feeling stretched already, those voices are the toxic gnawing that corrupt your precarious juggling act.

And then you hear Melinda Gates has made “time-poverty” her main philanthropic priority for the year, and another seed is sown to sprout more discontent. Because that is half the reason I felt so frazzled yesterday, and most mothers do: we are demand- rich but time-poor. The list of things for us to do in a day is endless. We actually could be kept busy for a straight twenty-four hour cycle quite easily. But then we realise that we need to stop to eat, sleep and pee, and those chores and demands need to be fit into a smaller time window.

Which is once again what adds undeserved pressure. Because in reality, we feel things are far more serious than they truly are. My Bible study group was not going to expel me if I served a ready-made carb-laden cake from the home industries (which is pretty close to what I ended up doing anyway!) and my children can go for a day without intensive hours of quality time with me.

There is another aspect to this whole dilemma which is left aside, ironically. That’s me. Where am I in all of this? Where is my voice? Which is a scary question to ask, since I am not sure I exist anymore.

Don’t laugh. I really don’t know whether I exist anymore.

Yes, I am Mom. Yes, I am Wife. Yes, I am Home-maker and Chef and Gardener and DIY person. But where am I?  I used to play the piano, but these days its always nursery rhymes and in duet with a three year old. I used to paint, but these days its almost always home touch ups I’m doing and not creative expression. I used to sing and dance and laugh and play and earn money of my own. I used to be Fun. And Creative. And Sexy. Which all seems like a life time ago. And in some ways, it actually is a different life.

It’s the pre-home, pre-kiddy, pre-breastfeeding and night-waking and spending-your-last-cents-on-a-box-of-nappies-because-they're-on-special-online life. In the past life, the online special for nappies would have gone completely unnoticed in favour for the ebook special, or Valentines Day undies promotion.

If you were to ask people who knew me then versus those I spend time with now, they would certainly have two very differing definitions of my personality. I am Mom now. And it’s a role I relish. I am also happy to be that. But when the balls are all in the air and I feel like I did yesterday where I wonder when I will be able to breathe without feeling like I am failing in so many areas again, I miss the days of being simply one thing. Simply me. I miss hearing my own voice in the cacophony of others. I miss taking a walk for the walk’s sake and not as an escape plan. I miss falling asleep slowly while reading a naughty novel rather than collapsing into my bed, sometimes fully dressed, and barely getting the covers on before I am up again to feed, or comfort, or change a nappy.

Hell, I miss drinking coffee in the morning without a breast pump attached to my udders.

I miss eating my own food. While it’s still hot.

Honestly, I miss silence.

Then those voices start up again telling me that I should be grateful for what I have and I should appreciate the tiny window this time allows for us to be with our kids because they grow up so fast and that my life could be so much worse. All of which I know to be true. All of which I know is sound advice. But shucks. It feels as though it will never end and the only person in the world who understands is – well – no one. No one understands. No one knows how hard it really is. No one knows how lost you feel. No one knows how much you're struggling. Because no one has ever done this before.

Yes. Its sounds ridiculous to me too. But only now.

I actually had those thoughts. Those ridiculous, over-critical thoughts. All day yesterday and most of the day before as well.

But the part I lived to write about, the part that I am going to cling to and so should you, is that today was a good day. A much, much better day.

I'm still tired.

My toddler wet her pants at school.

My bigger toddler threw a strop when she got home.

Baby still cried a lot.

But it was a far better day. And that’s what I wish the voices would realise: I had a bad day and that’s also okay. We all do. We’re allowed that – entitled to it even. But then it will be over. They simply need to place a disclaimer on their unsolicited advice, that being, “On most days…” or “Three quarters of the time,” or “Once in a while,” because when it is made to sound as though the balls all need to be juggled perfectly, all of the time, it makes the job all the more challenging.

At the end of the day, what our spouses, kids and home need are sane mommies. Happy-ish mommies. Fun-ish mommies. Relaxed-ish mommies. And hell, even less tired-ish mommies. (The last one is definitely a stretch!) No one is expecting perfect. Because perfect doesn’t exist. Part of the job of motherhood is being demand-rich and time-poor. There simply aren’t enough hours in the day to do all we would like to do; all that we feel we should do; all that Pinterest inspires us to do. But the balls start to fall when we start reaching for that unattainable goal of perfectionism. That is just when we need to take those voices in to control and tell them to shut the fuck up.*

And listen only to that quiet voice telling you: Take it one day at a time. You’re doing the best you can. And your best is pretty damn good.

*Excuse the profanity, please. Clearly more Bible study is required.