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Parenting
When You’ve Reached Your Limit
My mother once made a dramatic exit—throwing her hands up, turning away, and leaving us behind. We understood why; we had pushed her to the brink. She returned after a few tense hours, but during that time, it felt uncertain whether she would come back at all. Let’s rewind a bit.
This past week, I found myself yearning for a break—just a simple, aimless pause to do nothing. In the whirlwind of motherhood, these moments can sneak up on you until they’re right there, suffocating, buzzing in your ear like a relentless fly. After weeks of preparing meals for teacher appreciation, notarizing forms, tackling the mountain of paperwork on my desk, trying to reclaim our overgrown yard, and ensuring everyone was fed, the afternoon headaches struck. No amount of caffeine could tame that beast.
As if on cue, a particularly cruel individual posted a serene beach photo with perfectly manicured toes buried in the sand, and I couldn’t help but let out a heavy sigh of despair. Perhaps it’s just me; you might be cruising along effortlessly. But if one more thing drops from my juggling act, or I indulge in yet another rushed meal, or I go without a meaningful conversation with my partner for three days, or I have to pick up yet another hairball from the floor, I will completely lose it.
I reminisced about the days when my kids were little, when a tidy home was a relative concept, and ice cream could easily substitute for dinner. I would shuffle around the house like a character from a medieval tale, one teething baby on my hip and a clingy toddler attached to my leg. Mornings would drag on in a haze of broken crayons and diapers, and bless my husband for returning home just as the chaos peaked. Let’s just say I didn’t greet him in pearls and a smile.
Those days were challenging. I would often gaze out the Window of Despair, questioning my choices, weighing how far I could drive before running out of gas. Back then, they termed it postpartum depression, but in my mother’s era, it was simply called motherhood, and you were expected to endure it alone.
This brings me to the night my mother left. My father was overseas on a year-long military assignment, leaving my mother alone with three teenagers and two young children. This was a recipe for disaster: three teens synchronized in PMS, a demanding five-year-old, and a rambunctious toddler with an affinity for accidents.
After 18 years of marriage, my mother finally decided to take a few college classes, attempting to engage with actual literature while managing the demands of five children. Perhaps she felt a bit overwhelmed, because she decided to take a break from her studies to prepare a special Sunday roast for us all. The table was set beautifully with all the fixings, and we gathered around for family time before the busyness of the week began.
No one recalls what ignited the chaos. One sister threw a snarky remark, another retaliated, and suddenly, it escalated—like a hurricane starting as a gentle breeze. The volatile mix of hormones, fatigue, and some innate desire for chaos ignited a full-blown food fight. The first projectile was a scoop of mashed potatoes, and before my mother could interject, it became an all-out war, complete with flying gravy and shrieking girls. The climactic moment? An entire pitcher of iced tea splattered against the wall.
In the midst of the chaos, one sister grabbed my younger brother from his high chair, shielding him from the madness. She yanked me away, leading me into the hallway, focused solely on “saving the children.” At some point, someone must have noticed the absence of an adult. There was no parental intervention—our mother had left. The driveway was empty, and a heavy silence fell over the dining room. Uh-oh.
Had Dad been home, that would have been the end of the story. Two of us would have faced the consequences outside. Instead, we swallowed our guilt and cleaned up the dining room, heads hanging low. My brother and I were quietly tucked into bed without protest, while my three older sisters sat in their room, likely discussing how to manage until Dad returned.
When morning came, she was back in the kitchen, preparing breakfast as if nothing had happened. We later learned she had driven to the beach, sitting on the dunes for hours, letting the waves calm her mind while smoking Tareyton 100s. She had reached her limit and needed to remind herself of her love for us.
That day remained unspoken until years later, and it would take even longer for Dad to find out, long after my sisters had moved out and could safely discuss it.
On days when I, too, feel overwhelmed by life’s endless demands, I think of my mother’s momentary escape and recognize the warning signs that signal I need to step back for my sanity. It won’t always feel this way. Each day brings new mercies in motherhood, as predictably as the morning paper. I may not be able to escape to the beach, but I can close the bathroom door for a few moments of peace. And when all else fails? I’m off for dinner.
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In summary, motherhood can be overwhelming, and it’s okay to acknowledge your limits. Finding small moments to recharge is essential for maintaining balance.