I feel like I lament this at least 17 times a day, but being a mom is hard work. Like, super hard. Mostly because it’s the only job I know where there’s little in the way of training and a whole lot of making it up as you go along.
See also: fake it ’til you make it.
If I tell myself I know what I’m doing and I’m competent and making the right decisions often enough that will eventually be the truth, right?
Isn’t that how it works? Isn’t that how you create a self-fulfilling prophecy?
I’m stuck in this weird headspace right now where I’m questioning myself probably more than I should. My kids are alive and thriving and mostly happy, I think. That should be enough.
But I’ve never been one to rest on my laurels and think that I’ve reached the pinnacle of excellence. There’s always room for improvement.
There’s always room to be a little more this and a little less that. Whatever that is.
I feel like I both need and want to be better, but I constantly feel like life or the weather or the incessant whining of a kid who doesn’t yet understand logical thought just punches me in the gut until I crumple on the floor and scream “uncle” at the top of my lungs while the small creatures in my care dance around like little creatures who like to dance around.
Or that’s what I look like in my head when I’m the floating observer in the room. Probably it’s less dramatic than that.
I’m tired of feeling like I’m spinning my wheels. Tired of feeling like I can’t manage to get anything done without first putting out someone else’s fire.
This is the life of a mother, yes?