On Mothering, or How I Am Just Barely Making It Through

Wrestling with the realities of motherhood

This morning my three year old woke up at 4:23, determined to start his day but also unable to keep his eyes open. In between him trying to turn on all the lights in the apartment and insisting that it was time for breakfast, I coaxed him back into his room and eventually into his bed.

He needed his egg-shaped night light! He needed his water! He needed me to sing the Winne-the-Pooh song!

After fifteen minutes of rubbing his back, I finally heard the change in his breathing that tells me he’s asleep. I pulled my hand back. Sat. Crouched. Stood. Tip-toed to the door. Held my breath. Opened it. Escaped. Closed it. Felt a sigh emanate from my entire body.

I barely had time to sit on the couch when I heard him pulling his door open again.

A few months ago, my husband and I were still doing all the things our sleep training book told us to do. In other words, we weren’t rubbing his back for fifteen minutes to ease him back to sleep. But he’s been waking before 5 am for months now, and we’ve tried everything. None of it works anymore.

This particular morning devolved into me holding him while he insisted that his sleep light was green when it was, in fact, yellow (which means it’s almost time to wake up). He insisted quietly, at first, and I managed a calm “Even though you want it to be green, it’s still yellow,” for about ten minutes. He kept going long after I gave up answering and just sat holding him silently. He dozed on and off in between yelling.

At 6 am, the lamp turned green. We turned on lights, opened curtains, and went to the kitchen for breakfast.

Some mornings are just like this. Our son wakes up hours before he’s actually rested, I try to coax him back to sleep, we concede daytime at 6 am, and then I go get my husband and climb back into bed myself. During the lockdown earlier this year, my husband was the one waking up, because I was spending the bulk of the day parenting. But now preschool is open again, so it’s my turn for a while.

After fighting sleep in the early hours of the day, our son will then fight anything else he can. Twenty minutes to get pants on. Ten minutes to get him from the sidewalk into the bike seat he’s standing next to. Later, after preschool, I know he’ll fight me on wearing his bike helmet, wanting to get ice cream, and going to whichever playground we ride by, rather than the one we’re heading to to meet friends. Etcetera.

In the same way we spent the first few months of his life just trying to make it through a day (or a night, or an hour even) we’re again struggling through every moment of this three-year-old stage. It’s hard in a way that it hasn’t been yet. It’s not the physical exhaustion of the newborn months, which did almost destroy me. It’s a mental and emotional exhaustion that I feel utterly unequipped to deal with.

In any other relationship in my life, I’d walk away as fast as I could from someone who did nothing but fight me all day long.

And yes, I’ve listened to a zillion Janet Lansbury podcasts. Yes, I’ve read How to Talk So Little Kids Will Listen. Yes, I’ve tried going full-on Montessori mom. And yes, I’ve given up on them all.

I find myself standing in the kitchen daily, staring at my coffee cup turning in the microwave to heat the dregs I never finished earlier, wondering again and again, “Why is this so hard?” Which shifts, often, to “Why is this so hard for me?” And, inevitably, to, “Why am I the only one unable to do this?” But it can’t just be me, right? Right…?

Here in Berlin, I have a handful of mom friends, and when we’re together, I’m constantly watching them, trying to see what their secret is. How are they surviving this hellscape? And why are they not calling it a hellscape? One of my friends does commiserate often, reassuring me that “this is three” and yes, it is much harder than the so-called “terrible two’s.” And yet, she also recently had a second kid, while my husband and I have only gotten more certain that we are a one-and-done kind of family. We’re barely surviving the one.

When I turn to the internet — always a mistake, and still I look — I mostly find the same sorts of stories: the sticky sweet sap of mothers who use acronyms like DS and DD (Darling Son, Darling Daughter), the sandy neutrals of linen-clad eco-mamas on Instagram, and the sharp snark of Scary Mommy-style memes. What I can’t seem to find is the place in between all of these caricatures.

Where are the other mamas who are trying their best but are barely keeping their heads above water? Is there space somewhere in between the sap and the style and the snark for the vulnerability of just saying honestly how hard this is?

What about allowing for the reality of how much harder this is right now, given the state of the world? I’ve seen lots of articles about the workplace setbacks women are facing because of COVID, but what about the emotional minefield that is mothering right now — workplace setbacks aside? I’m saying this as a white, able-bodied, cis-female whose husband makes enough money that we haven’t had to worry too much about the fact that I’ve barely been able to take freelance work all year. I live in a country where healthcare is, indeed, a right and not a perk. My kid is even back at preschool — for now, at least.

What about the mamas who don’t walk through the world with these privileges? Is sap and snark the best we can offer?

Where are the stories without jokes about guzzling wine or an uplifting moral at the end? To be clear, I also need both of these to get through a day. Where is the space for it being okay to say, “Oh my fucking god this is hard and sometimes I really hate being a mom” that doesn’t equate to I hate my kid, or I’m going to bail at any moment, or I’m so checked out that I’m going to end up raising an asshole? It just means this is hard, and most days I’m not sure I can do it.

It’s like the whole “Yes, and…” thing in improv.

Yes, it’s hard. Yes, I hate it a lot right now. Yes, I am desperate to be doing anything else other than trying to stay calm in the wake of a threenager’s rage about mornings and cookies and watching Cars. AND, I’m doing it anyway.

With every ounce of heart and love and compassion I can muster for this creature my body made, I’m doing it anyway.

Is there space enough for that?