It’s nearly noon, and I find myself at the kitchen counter, slicing fruit for lunch. Suddenly, I hear the rumble of the FedEx truck outside. In my frenzy, I realize I left the dogs out, and they’re barking furiously at the delivery man. In my pajama pants and a messy bun, I dash outside to quiet them down and retrieve the package. My three kids, dressed in an odd mix of costumes, squeeze past me to say hello to the FedEx Guy.
As I juggle two dogs and three energetic kids, I try to keep the chaos contained. The dogs are barking, the kids are pushing each other, and the FedEx Guy seems intent on giving the dogs a treat they clearly don’t want. “Thanks, but you might want to make a quick getaway,” I think.
Once I manage to get everyone back indoors, I realize I’ve just given the neighbors and the delivery guy a glimpse of my braless state. Fantastic. My nursing tank, which hasn’t seen any use in almost two years, offers as much support as a piece of paper towel. My kids look like they’ve been through a whirlwind, despite my best efforts to clean them up this morning. They’re clamoring around me, eager to see what’s in the package.
“What’s the FedEx guy’s name?” one child asks, while her twin pulls on my shirt, inquiring, “Does he have a dog?” and the youngest whines, “I’m SO HUNGRY!” It’s a cacophony of tiny voices and hands everywhere. I can’t even think straight. “If you don’t stop climbing on me right now, nobody is having lunch!” I want to shout, but I don’t want to lose it.
“Please don’t take that knife off the counter. It’s a KNIFE! Do I really need to say that? Can you just step out of the kitchen for two seconds so I can prepare lunch?”
I’m trying hard not to yell. But then I see one child hit her sister, and I feel the frustration boiling over. “GET OUT OF THE KITCHEN NOW OR NO ONE IS GETTING ANY LUNCH! EVER!” I finally explode. They scatter, but I’m left feeling defeated. I hate this. I feel like I’m failing at everything.
I sink to the kitchen floor, tears streaming down my face. I cry because the demands of motherhood are never-ending. I cry because I’m exhausted, and I really need a shower. I cry over the fact that it’s taking me forever to chop these stupid plums. I cry because I love my children fiercely; they’re bright, funny, and wonderfully complicated, yet they can also drive me to my wit’s end. They deserve my patience, and I want to give it, but today it feels buried under an avalanche of chaos.
Suddenly, I hear the clacking of dress-up shoes coming my way. “Mommy?” Oh no, they’ve found me. I hastily wipe my face. “I’m just taking a break. Lunch is almost ready,” I say, forcing a smile.
But really, I’m not taking a break. I’m breaking. Days like this can be overwhelming, making me feel like everything I do is for everyone else, leaving me completely drained. I just want to vanish. But I take a deep breath and remind myself that not every day is like this. I think back to the sweet moment this morning when my youngest woke up smiling, and I hugged her tightly, inhaling her soft baby scent. Just two days ago, the house was tidy, and that felt good.
So, while I may be breaking, I’m not broken. I’m not sure how to navigate this challenging phase of motherhood, or even how to make it through today, but I know I’ll start with these plums.
I stand up and finish slicing the fruit. Lunch is nearly ready.
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