Burnout

No one told me when I had children that I’d be constantly exhausted. I was warned that I wouldn’t get much sleep the first year since babies like to be fed in the middle of the night—multiple times—regardless of how much milk you try to cram down them to keep them asleep for an extra hour. I was expecting that sort of thing, but I’ve been a parent for fourteen years now and I’m still sleep deprived, cranky, and exhausted on a daily basis.


I really thought that once the kids could pour their own milk, microwave their own Mac & Cheese, and fall asleep in front of the TV that I might not have to do everything myself. But instead I come home to chaos where I can recreate the scene of the crime better than that creepy guy on CSI: the suspect dropped his backpack at the point of entry by the front door, then the suspect attempted to peel an apple in the sink without the garbage disposal, after that it looks like the subject ate crackers while watching TV on the couch, peeled his socks off and threw them at the cat.

This forensic analysis naturally leads to me yelling incoherent things at my children regarding barns and giving birth. They respond by telling me that I’m always cranky and they wish Dad were home instead of me. News-flash—we’re all wishing for the same thing. Once they’ve called me crazy (generally using hand gestures as opposed to actual words), then they promptly ask what we’re having for dinner. Generally my purse is still on my shoulder and I have to fight the overwhelming urge to whack them soundly on the head with it, but instead I open the fridge for a game of weeknight roulette. Naturally, whatever I choose is “yucky” to at least half of the children and even though they were “starving” they only eat a few bites. This generally leads me to stand over the sink, finishing off plates of food as they arrive because I’m mad—leading to a close relative of the “freshman fifteen” known as the “muffin top” and a guilty spin on the elliptical machine even though I’d really rather go to bed.

Once you repeat this pattern, day after day, for years it has the same effect has sleep deprivation for prisoners of war—you start to hallucinate, lose all sense of direction, and put your car keys in the freezer. When moms get together the topics tend to swirl around brain-dead children, weight-loss and anti-depressant drugs--so much for that expensive college education since we can’t carry on an intelligent conversation. I can’t even remember the last time I was able to watch the evening news without falling asleep before the weather.

Maybe it’s best if we’re too exhausted to really examine our lives. Motherhood requires endless sacrifice and, if we calculated what we’re giving up then we might just decide that it’s all too much—that is until it’s time to tuck them in and then you remember that you love them and they’re worth it.