Clocking-Out of Motherhood

I was at home with the kids while my husband was out running an errand. The baby woke up from her nap after only 30 minutes, clearly not wanting to be awake yet. I didn’t want to go back in and get her. For the first time ever (EVER.) I decided I would cozy up on the couch and watch a show *I* wanted to watch on the TV while my son played on the tablet beside me. I set the coffee pot beside me so I wouldn’t have to get up for refills. I snacked on my kid’s uneaten pop-tarts.

I sent all my adulting and motherly values packing, you see.

It had all become too much and I needed to clock out for a minute. It wasn’t perfect but it was indulgent. I deserved it. It was either this or smash something valuable. I chose this.

It lasted approximately 15 minutes. One cup of coffee. Not even an entire episode of *my* show. The pop-tart wasn’t even good.

Before I went back to the nursery, I just wallowed in the state of things. That this was my reality. That time to myself was a myth and there was just nothing I could do about it.

It felt like I was sinking, with no bottom to stop me.

I went to her room and nursed her, praying to any and all deities, assuring them all I’d give any sacrifice they required in exchange for just an hour more sleep.

I sat there, begrudgingly. I looked down at my over-tired girl. Her hair was just beginning to curl at the ends. Baby curls that I knew wouldn’t stick. Her long eyelashes fluttered slightly as she went back to sleep. I noticed the little noises she made as she drifted off. Little snorts and sighs and whines. I wanted to drink her in, soaking up every last drop of her. She was so peaceful. I had emptied myself and scraped the bottom of the barrel so she could be at peace.

And for a moment, I wanted to be there forever, basking in the glory of it.

I remember thinking, I’ll be so relieved when I get to sneak out of her room if she’ll just stay asleep just for a little while. But if she didn’t, I would put away the coffee pot and the subpar pop-tarts and turn off my show again.

Both are true at once: the distress I feel over being constantly needed, and that nothing compares to the satisfaction of meeting her needs.