I am no angel but lately I have been asking myself a lot about the American parent dichotomy. This “perfect on the outside, shit on the inside” facade that we are all barely holding together.Where are my truthers?
Where are my unknown friends who have sat sobbing on the kitchen floor at midnight, with dinner burnt, your boobs hanging out, and your baby screaming?
Where are the women who forgot for 6 or more weeks what it was like to live with sex, sleep, and any rationale control of your hormones?
Where are the woman who love their children fiercely, but occasionally have thought “could I give you back for an hour?”
Where are these truthers hiding? I can’t hear you among the pleas of my peers for acceptance, approval.
14 weeks of parenting has afforded me very little time behind this maniacal wheel, but what I do know is that “you know nothing.”
Jon Snow be damned, I am giving it my best shot.
As I sit here, snowed in by Jonas, mounds of laundry piling up, struggling to breast feed and hoping the snow lasts till June so I never have to leave, I am reminded of the times I do get right. Half of them are by chance while the other half is hard work. Regardless, the triumph of these moments is all the greater because of the shitty odds of the battle going in, and the masterful f***-ups that somehow got you here.
Truth: I feel like I do more work than my husband.
Truth: he feels like he does more work than me.
Truth: we both are often working to what feels like our limits and sleep is not what it used to be.
Truth: today I own my my duality. I am a good parent. I am a bad parent.
P.s. Nap-time, you are a cock tease. I am beginning to loathe you as much as those perfect princesses with their Einstein infants, Martha Stewart magic, and white girl angst.