Maybe I'm Not the Only One (Based on real events, but also completely made up)

I wanted this. I dreamed about it. Ached for it in the times when I thought it would never happen. No other alternative, no matter how alluring, came close to feeling as right and purposeful. If I could have this one thing, it would be the greatest fulfillment of my entire existence. (I’m aware that seems a bit overdramatic, but I’m feeling the drama today and this is my story.)

Eventually, later than I had hoped, it happened. My dream. It was beautiful and painful and real. So real. Sometimes too real if I’m being honest.

I knew it wouldn’t be all roses and sunshine. I knew that. Still, I really thought I knew what I was getting into, as much as anyone could. But, true to all experiences in life, you don’t really know until you’re in it. Nothing prepared me for how lonely I would feel, even though I’m rarely alone.

I wanted this, I remind myself, sitting on the edge of my bed, mindlessly scrolling on my phone, and fantasizing, for a brief moment, about running away. A video pops up on my Facebook feed. Some woman who looks far too rested, preaching the virtue of being present, like a television evangelist. “It will change your life.” "I've created a course just for you." “One easy payment and your life will be transformed.” Lady, I am overstimulated, overwhelmed, and underslept. Don’t judge me for wanting a few minutes of escape from the present. What do you even know about my life?

The sound of running water and childish laughter gradually force their way into my ears. Crap! Tossing my phone down, I rush into the kitchen. A small waterfall is descending from the sink and creating a spreading pool on the floor. Two of my “dreams” look at me with big grins from their precarious perch on a dining room chair.

“Mama! We wash the dishes!” The older one proclaims proudly.

“Mama, dishes!” the younger one mimics.

“No, no, no!” Water sloshes around my feet as I hastily turn off the faucet. “Stay there!”

Soon almost every towel from the closet is on the floor, soaked within a nanosecond. I do my best to slide one under the oven before the water can spread. The remaining towels come with me down into the laundry room where water drips from exposed pipes like stalactites in a subterranean cave.

“More laundry,” I grumble. “Great.”

Only this morning I held a tiny celebration in honour of the monumental feat of catching up with said laundry. The kids joined me in a silly dance as I put the last towel away. Clean towels for baths and showers. What a thrill. Allow me a moment to mourn.

“Mama, come look!” More giggles and suspicious splashing.

Crap! The boys are still at the sink. One side is full of water, which the toddler is sloshing around with a whisk, sending even more water onto the floor.

“No!” I grab his hand and remove the offending utensil.

“I making soup,” he protests.

“The soup is done now,” I reply. My jaw hurts.

“Does it look yummy, Mama?” His older brother asks.

I eye the “soup”. Dingy water with bits of breakfast floating in it. Not yummy.

“It looks like the perfect soup for the sink monster.” I declare as I roll up my sleeves and plunge my arm into the chunky, soapy, gag-inducing water.

The boys cry and whine as I feel around for whatever is blocking the drain. Bits of egg and cereal brush against my arm. It’s a pickle jar lid. The exact size to fit snug in the drain. Facing upwards. Creating the perfect, impenetrable seal.

“Are you kidding me?!” I growl. The boys wince, but I ignore the twinge of guilt in my stomach and yank the cutlery drawer open so hard, everything inside rattles. My fingers wrap around a butter knife, and I proceed to jam it forcefully between the lid and the drain wall. After an epic struggle, the lid jerks loose with a muffled sucking sound, sending more water over the side and down my front.

The boys clap and watch the water drain with enthusiasm, eager to see the resulting vortex at the end. I scoop out large chunks of what used to be food that won’t make it down the drain. This isn’t even the worst thing my hands have held, but I still gag.

“Why?” I ask, leaning on the counter to catch my breath. I’m hot and sweaty, and disgusting water has seeped into the edge of my sleeve. It itches. “Why were you messing around in the sink?”

“I was cleaning.” The five-year-old says matter-of-factly.

“Look, Mama! Bubbles!” His little brother giggles.

That’s when I see it. A mountain of bubbles in the other half of the sink. My eyes follow a trail of dish soap up onto the counter, leading to where the bottle lies in a puddle of its contents in the frying pan. It had been almost full this morning; now it’s almost empty. But that’s not all. It appears the aspiring dish washer and soup maker figured out the spray feature of the faucet. Water covers the counter and is dripping down the window.

You know the saying, “she saw red”? I don’t see red. My vision goes black at the edges, and a rushing sound fills my ears. I can feel my cortisol spike in real time. I’m trying to breathe through it, but oh boy, it’s not working too well.

“What were you thinking?” I shake the barren bottle of soap in their faces. “Why are you like this? This was full! You wasted all of it! Guys!”

The boys shrink away from me. Guilt settles in my gut, but I can’t seem to stop.

“Look at this mess! Look at it!” My arm sweeps in a wide circle. “Who has to clean it up? You?” Silence. “No, Mom has to clean it up. I am tired of cleaning up your stupid messes.” I’m gasping and shaking. “You have to stop. You just have to stop.”

My toddler is staring at me with wide, teary eyes. My five-year-old won’t look at me. A colossal sigh escapes from my very depths.

“Let’s get you out of these wet things.” They climb down from the chair, and I peel their sopping clothes off. I can feel water between my toes, so I remove my drenched socks too. They all go in a soggy pile.

“Wipe your feet and go get dressed.” They wipe their feet ineffectively on a dry bit of towel before escaping. Little wet footprints trail down the hallway after them.

I wipe up the wet counters to the tune of my own guilt. I should have taken care of the dishes right after breakfast. Never mind that the newly potty-trained toddler almost had an accident, or that the boys wanted me to read to them, or any of the other things I did. I should have. I berate myself for not seeing into the future, for sitting on my bed, for being on my phone, for yelling, and for anything else I can think of.

I’m on my knees now, collecting the waterlogged towels that drip excessively as I drop them in an empty storage bin. I should probably squeeze the water out, but I don’t. I swear these things are holding 10 pounds of water each.

“Mommy, I can’t find my pants!”

Oh for the love of….

“Just wait,” I reply.

“Okay.” They’re quiet, and I pray they aren’t up to anything else.

For a second I sit, staring at nothing. My eyes are hot and prickly. I don’t want to do this anymore, I tell myself over and over. I can’t do this. But this is what I wanted. This is what I chose. I just don’t know if I do want it anymore. The thought breaks my heart. What is wrong with me? I should never have been allowed to be a mom. I can never let anyone know I have these thoughts. Nobody would understand.

All of the trite cliches people say to younger moms run through my head. Enjoy every moment. They grow up so fast. You’ll miss this. This too shall pass…blah, blah, blah. Shut up, I want to scream at every one of them. I will not miss this, and it can’t pass soon enough.

“Mom?” My oldest is standing in the doorway. “Can we still go to the park?”

The bleeding park. Ugh. We had plans to meet friends, and I had completely forgotten. I was getting dressed to go when the great kitchen flood happened. The last thing I want to do is see people, but it’s probably for the best that we get out of the house.

“Yeah, buddy. I just need to finish cleaning up.”

He helps me get the last of the towels in the bin; it weighs a ton, and helps me wipe up the rest of the water with dish towels. (We don’t have a regular mop, for those who are wondering why I’m using every towel I own.) Somehow I get the eighty-pound bin to the laundry room and dump one hundred pounds of wet towels in the washing machine.

Once everyone is dressed (again), we head to the park. I’ve already texted my friend that we’d be late. She texted back a thumbs up. By the time we arrive, I have a smile on my face, and I greet everyone as if everything is fine. The boys play, and I take some pictures because you don’t want to miss a single moment. I push them on the swings. The very image of a happy mom. That’s me. Nobody can know that under the facade is a woman questioning her life choices and then beating herself up for it. A woman whose heart is breaking because, no matter how badly she wants it, motherhood isn’t the magical, fulfilling, divinely transformative experience it’s supposed to be. I feel like a caterpillar forever stuck in the goopy stage of metamorphosis that will never be a butterfly.

My friend and I sit, watching the kids. She asks me how my day has been. She’s the kind of friend you don’t give a vague answer to. So I tell her about the flour spill that happened when I was in the bathroom first thing in the morning, the seemingly constant fights, and end with the epic flood.

“Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry. That is a lot.”

I shrug it off. “It could have been worse. At least they didn’t have the tap turned to scalding hot.”

A child interrupts us, crying about a sibling being mean. An older woman arrives with her grandkids, and soon all of the kids are playing together. My oldest is directing some sort of zombie hunting game, which probably won’t end well. The grandmother joins us in the shade, and we talk about our families for a bit before settling into silence while we keep an eye on the children.

My friend turns to me after handling yet another emotional crisis with her youngest, “The kids have really been trying me lately. Sometimes I feel like running away. Not forever, just when it’s too much. I had no clue it would be so hard. I can't even imagine dealing with a flooded kitchen." She shudders. "You’re an amazing mom. I would have lost it and not left the house.”

I’m surprised. She’s the amazing mom. She always seems so present (there’s that word again) and calm. She really loves her kids, and it’s obvious. The kind of woman who was born to be a mother. I want desperately to tell her that I have the same feelings. That I’m a ragey, grumpy mom, but I can’t. I feel so ashamed.

“I remember those days,” the older woman says. “They were some of the loneliest and most exhausting days of my life. I didn't know how much it would take from me.”

We nod in agreement.

“Sometimes I wanted to run away too. This will pass, they’d tell me. Like a kidney stone, it will pass.” My friend and I laugh. “I don’t miss all of it. Not the hard stuff. I did find a way to love it. I would do it again, just with a little more grace for myself and my kids.” She pats my hand and smiles at us both. “Don’t be too hard on yourselves. You’re doing better than you think. Those kids are loved, and they know it.”

Her words echo in my mind for the rest of the day. I manage to make it to bedtime without any more meltdowns. My husband doesn’t blame me for the flood like I irrationally thought he would and tells me he’ll take care of the laundry. After the kids are in bed, hopefully to stay, I finally have a moment to myself.

I’m settled in bed with a mug of ice cream (portion control or whatever) and a book. A bit of weight has lifted off my heart. Maybe I'm not the only mom in the world who is struggling. Maybe I don’t have to love everything about being a mom. Maybe the most important thing is loving my kids. That I can do.

I text my friend, “Going back to our conversation earlier. Same girl. Same.”

A few minutes later my phone dings. She’s responded with a heart emoji. “I hate this for you, but it’s nice to know I’m not the only one. I feel so awful.”

“I get it. But you haven’t run away, and neither have I. I guess we’re doing alright.”

“That’s true. I’m here if you need to talk. I still think you’re an amazing mom.”

“You too. Maybe we can run away for an evening next week.”

“Love it! Let me check what’s going on.”

I settle back into my pillow and prop the book open on my knees. The ice cream has started melting, but I let myself enjoy each creamy spoonful. Just half an hour, I tell myself as I begin reading the first chapter.

A door squeaks and footsteps shuffle down the hall, stopping outside my bedroom. The door slowly opens; a little face looks at me with a sheepish grin.

“I can’t sleep.” His squinting eyes settle on my mug and the spoon halfway to my mouth. “What are you eating? I want some.”