There I was—eating chocolate pudding on my couch in the dark, with tears streaming down my face.
You see my day started off as every other normal day. My daughter, woke up at around 8:30 a.m. By noon, I realized I had changed five diapers, fed two bottles, washed two loads of laundry, wiped down the counters, swept the kitchen, taken out the bathroom trash, listened to two hours of Little Baby Bum, and attempted to put away our full suitcase from visiting my mom in Dallas last week.
By 2 pm., I realized I hadn’t even had a sip of water, let alone breakfast. As I rocked and rocked our sweet girl, and begged God for her to take a nap, I realized I had not been alone in a very, very long time. In several months, the most alone time had been going to a few stores to shop for my husband’s birthday, and getting my hair done, which was both super last-minute and rushed. For someone who used to enjoy going out to eat for lunch alone, it was a very unsettling moment of realization.
I realized my husband truthfully thought I was a real life, walking, breathing superhero.
My eyes seem to be stained with bags. My shirts have spit-up stains. My hair is never fixed. My nails aren’t done. And let’s be honest, it’s a good day if I eat anything before noon. You see, we have no help during the week. We have no family who can stay during the week (or shall I say anyone we trust to calm our sweet girl who HATES bedtime and fights it like WWII).
My oh-so-wonderful husband was snoring some serious logs as he decided to go to bed early due to his dear horrible cold (mind you, I had food poisoning a couple of months ago while my husband was hunting opening weekend while I stayed home and attempted to take care of myself and our 8-month-old). But, I’m a mommy. I’m a wife. I stay at home. I must be Superwoman, right? I truly believe that our house might just burn down if I went to bed “early” with a stuffy nose and headache.
Bedtime rolled in like a freight train. The crying started. It continued. And continued. Two hours later, we both were fighting sleep with dried tears on our faces. The moment her precious, innocent eyes closed, I laid her down ever-so-gently as if she were a bomb waiting to go off in her crib. I turned on her white noise, gave her a lovey, and literally sprinted to the bath to relax. I lit my candle and turned on my music just loud enough to block out any crying.
I dried off, and checked to make sure she was still snoozing away. Thank the Lord, God, hallelujah she was out like a log. I didn’t get to eat dinner (unless you want to count four super dry buffalo wings a meal). I couldn’t resist that Hershey’s chocolate mousse pudding sitting in the fridge literally begging me to eat it. And so I did. I reclined on the couch, and was scrolling through Netflix to find the perfect match to wind me down. Just as I was about to click play, the bomb went off. My stomach sank as the crying got louder. I silently prayed that my husband would magically wake up from his deep sleep that I envy so much. But, he didn’t. I turned the TV off, and finished my pudding with tears rolling down my face.
You see husband, I am in fact not Superwoman. You must know and see that I love our sweet girl more than my own life. She is my everything, and when she smiles at me I can seriously feel my insides melting every time. But, as mommas, we need help well before we wind up eating pudding and crying at the same time. We need alone time. We need uninterrupted showers and hot baths. We need to EAT just as much as we need to SLEEP. We need the laundry folded and put away a couple of times a week. We need to feel a sense of normality in our stained shirts and baggy sweats.
We need to quit trying to be Superwoman.
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