Motherhood

Curse men and their useless nipples.

Every night I’m passed out by ten o’clock, something my husband never fails to jeer at me for. “You’re 22, you should be staying up past midnight. You’re no fun anymore.”

I’m so exhausted, I could cry. My night shirt smells of spit up and body odor. Today was hideous, the toddler threw tantrum after tantrum. When I finally lost my temper, my husband said I shouldn’t yell at her like that and proceeded to explain how I ought to have dealt with the situation. If he is so knowledgeable then he should have stepped in so that I didn’t turn into ‘monster mummy’ again. I hate being Monster Mummy.

That’s how my children see me, I’m sure of it.

“Look out! Here comes Monster Mummy. Her stomps make the earth quake and her roars cause the windows to tremble. Better hold on to your toys, because if Monster Mommy gets them, they’ll disappear into the void, and you’ll never see them again.”

No doubt Daddy’s the hero. He swoops in with his spandex, cape billowing out behind him, and stops the Monster in her tracks.

In those moments, I hate him. Hate him for being able to leave the house and interact with actual adults all day. Hate him for coming home, sitting on the sofa and telling the children to leave him alone because he needs some quiet. Hate him for coming home and asking why dinner isn’t started. Hate him for being able to sleep all night, save for when he nudges me awake because the baby is crying.

That’s why I’m here nursing the baby, instead of sleeping. He always hears her first and instead of trying to rock her back to sleep what does he do? He nudges me and mumbles, “the baby’s hungry.” Once I’m awake I could never just leave her crying, it breaks my heart, I’m a mother after all. If I hear it, I can’t ignore it—I think he knows that.

Sometimes I imagine handing him the babies and walking out the door. Maybe I’d go become a writer and live alone in a studio apartment, make a name for myself. I could never leave them though. Maybe I’d go on vacation, all alone, it would be quiet, it would be peaceful. The anger and resentment when I got home wouldn’t be worth it. Maybe I’d go to work and let him be the stay-at-home parent. Except, that’s right, he has useless nipples.

There’s no point in even thinking about it, I know I could never leave. It’s amazing how lonely it is even though you’re never alone, not for a single second of the day. It’s unfathomable how desperate I am to talk to someone, even though I can’t get a word in edgewise with my toddler. It’s like living with a colony of parakeets, except the cacophony is created by one small human with a knack for creating life sized art, using the wall as her canvas.

My days are spent trying to keep the house from smelling like shit. Essential oils and candles help a little, but there’s always that underlying pungency that I just can’t seem to get rid of. Despite the poopy aroma, I keep the house clean, in fact, all I do is clean.

Between the babies, tidying and cooking, I have no time for myself. When I do get some time for myself, like a weekend away with my mother and sister, he resents me for it. He acknowledges that staying home is a job, and thus, doesn’t want to have to work on his days off. Shouldn’t I get a day off though? A few hours in the evening to take a bath, maybe read a book, is that too much to ask for?

At least he gets paid for his work. A physical acknowledgement of what you are worth to your place of business. I suppose there isn’t a paycheck high enough for what a mother does, perhaps that’s why we don’t get paid. Even if I did get some money for my efforts, I’d probably spend it all on the kids anyways.

All I want is some recognition—for someone to look at me and say, “I know how hard it is, but you’re doing a good job Here, have a glass of wine.” If I felt like my job was appreciated, it would make all the difference.

Yesterday I told my husband I can’t wait to sign our daughter up for preschool next year. The thought of having two and a half hours to myself is intoxicating. Of course, the baby will still be here, but she’ll be napping at that time, it will be amazing. I thought he’d agree with me or say something like, “yes dear, that will be very nice for you.” But instead, he said that he finds it offensive that I seem to want to get away from our children, that I should be cherishing these moments when they’re so small.

Don’t get me wrong, I agree with him, and I do, but there are twelve hours of awake time, and not all those moments are cherish-able. Those hard moments are the ones that depend on me reacting in an appropriate manner. Do you know how hard that is when your mind and body are required for nearly every waking moment, not to mention the midnight feedings.

If I didn’t have those moments, the ones that make everything worth it, I don’t think I’d be able to do it. Children don’t say thank you, they don’t appreciate anything you do, they simply take it as if it is something they’re owed. If you put your foot down and say ‘no’ they scream in your face, that’s thankfulness for you.

I just wish my partner saw how hard this all is for me. I wish he didn’t complain about the lack of sex, or that I’m not as promiscuous as I used to be. I wish he wouldn’t complain about the dirty dishes, or the toys littered on the floor. I wish he would let me have some time away without making me feel guilty for it.

I look down at the baby, hoping she’s asleep, but those big brown eyes are looking up at me. Her chubby little hand pats my damp cheek and I catch it and kiss the center of her palm. She smiles around my nipple. Precious baby.