It’s just before noon, and I find myself at the kitchen counter, the scene of my chaotic morning, chopping fruit for lunch. The sound of a FedEx truck pulls me from my thoughts. I totally forgot the dogs were outside, and they’re not exactly rolling out the welcome mat for the delivery man. In my pajama pants and unkempt hair, I dash outside to hush the barking dogs and retrieve the package. My kids, dressed in a wild mix of costumes, scramble past me to greet the FedEx driver.
I’m juggling two barking dogs and three spirited children, trying to contain the madness that seems to seep into the neighborhood. The dogs are barking, the kids are shoving each other, and the delivery guy is oddly intent on giving the dogs a treat they clearly don’t want. Thanks, but it might be best if you just make a quick exit.
After finally ushering everyone inside, I realize I’ve just paraded in front of the neighbors and the FedEx guy, completely braless. Fantastic. The nursing tank I’ve been wearing—unused for two years—offers about as much support as a paper towel. My kids look like they just rolled out of bed, despite my earlier attempts to clean them up. They swarm around me with questions about the package.
“What’s the FedEx guy’s name?” one child pipes up, while her twin sister tugs on my shirt, asking, “Does he have a dog?” Meanwhile, the toddler whines, “I’m SO HUNGRY!” All at once, little hands and loud voices overwhelm me. I’m struggling to concentrate. I don’t want to raise my voice, but if they don’t give me a moment, no one’s having lunch.
“Stop touching me. Stop bothering your sister. I need to make lunch!”
I really don’t want to yell.
“Don’t touch that knife on the counter. It’s A KNIFE. Do I really have to say that? Please, just get out of the kitchen so I can finish making lunch.”
I will not yell.
“Maybe you could tidy up some toys while I wrap this up. There are toys everywhere, and lunch is nearly ready.”
But I do yell. “Did you seriously just hit your sister again? Stop messing with the trash! GET OUT OF THE KITCHEN NOW OR NO ONE IS GETTING LUNCH!”
Finally, they disperse, but I feel awful. I’ve raised my voice. This is not how I want to parent.
I sink down onto the kitchen floor, overwhelmed and in tears.
I cry because the demands of motherhood feel unending.
I cry from exhaustion and the need for a shower.
I cry because it took me half an hour just to slice these plums.
I cry out of love for my kids, who are beautiful, curious, and completely exasperating. They deserve my patience, yet today, it’s buried beneath a mountain of demands, and I snapped at them instead.
I hear dress-up shoes clacking toward me.
“Mommy?”
Great. They found me. I quickly wipe my face.
“Mommy, why are you sitting on the floor?”
“Oh, I’m just taking a break. Lunch is almost ready.”
But the truth is, I’m not taking a break. I’m breaking.
Days like this—moments like this—are incredibly tough. I feel depleted, as if everything I do is for others. There’s nothing left for me. I just want to vanish.
Yet, I take a deep breath and remind myself that not every day is like this. Not every moment is this overwhelming. I think back to this morning when my toddler woke up with a smile. I was tired, yes, but I held her close, inhaling her sweetness. And just two days ago, the house was tidy, and it felt good.
I may be breaking, but I’m not broken. I’m unsure how to navigate this demanding phase of motherhood, but I guess I’ll start with these pesky plums.
I stand up and complete the fruit slicing. Lunch is nearly ready.
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