14 Aug When Motherhood Feels Like Too Much: One Mum’s Honest Midlife Reflection
Facing The Mirror: Nicole Ryan is momentarily overwhelmed by the mediocrity of motherhood.
Mirror Moments and Midlife Questions
Is this what a midlife crisis feels like? At 37 years old? Is this considered midlife? If 40 is the new 30, then I’m still in my prime. But I feel as if I peaked a long time ago.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I sit on the edge of the bed, talking to my mother on the phone (I speak to her more than I speak to my girlfriends these days), and I suddenly feel more depressed than I have in a long time.
My short, frumpy, maternal mousy-coloured hair does nothing to frame my four chins, and my four-time-used incubator, otherwise known as a stomach, is hideously fat and sits in rolls. In fact, I still look six months pregnant. It’s been 21 months.
Remembering Who I Was
I wear glasses now, all day, and I wonder who the girl is who stares back at me from behind the glass in the black-and-white photo on my wall. That girl with a jawline and freedom in her eyes.
As I step on yet another toy car, I wonder what happened to my dream. The one in which I resolved to be happy in mediocrity and familiarity—the one in which I wanted to be surrounded by children.
Today, those children hang off me as I try to have five minutes to empty my head onto this page. Children who won’t be quiet for just five continuous moments so that I could at least hear what silence is like and remind myself that I prefer the sound of my children’s voices.
Everyday Chaos and Dinner Disputes
Here’s the four-year-old, who asks me what is for dinner and whines and grizzles and carries on unnecessarily about how “I don’t want that, I want something different!” and “I don’t care, Mum, I don’t care. I just want something different!”
I attempt to explain to him that he doesn’t even know what “I don’t care” means, but I give up because I don’t care either right now. I’ll cook the vegetables anyway because it makes me feel better, and I’ll serve them on the cute little plates with pictures of cartoon characters on them. The kids won’t eat half of them, and the dog will be happy. Again.
My Guilty Pleasures and Survival Tactics
I try to cure my depressive state of mind by going to that cupboard again – the one that’s really high up, above the microwave. The one the kids can’t reach, although they know that it hides the good stuff. I reach up and grab the big plastic box full of lollies and chocolate, and grab another handful.
I sit at the computer and purge my mind, as I gorge on self-medication – otherwise known as crap junk food. I look at the clock and wonder if it’s too early to have a glass of wine. It is, but only because I don’t want to be legless and fall asleep before 6.30 pm.
Happy… Mostly
The irony of my life is that I’m happy. I’m fat. But I’m happy. When I don’t think about it or when I don’t accidentally catch a sideways glance of myself in a mirror, then I’m happier than a pig in poo. But when I catch a glimpse of another reality, I sigh and wonder how different life could’ve been.
I compare myself to the gorgeous, young and vivacious women who entertain and go out and party, driving in their sporty cars while I park my seven-seat bus outside the supermarket where I go to empty my purse yet again so that I can fill my cupboards.
Me Time Interrupted (Again)
I write a list of things I intend to do, such as walking or riding the exercise bike that stands motionless in the garage. I scull two glasses of water and realise I have only six more to drink today if I want to be remotely healthy.
As I enjoy the music I have been playing, my four-year-old rudely interrupts me, wanting “Nickelodeon on!” “Yes, mate, in a minute. Just let Mummy listen to this…” “No, I want Nickelodeon, please. Ohhhhh, my head hurts.”
Lately, that’s his answer to everything: when he doesn’t get his way instantly, he holds his head and screams, “Ohhhhh my head hurts, my head hurts”. I know just how you feel, son. Poor child. Everyone thinks he’s got a brain tumour. Or that perhaps I’ve beaten him around the head.
Arsenic Hour Has Arrived
Well, I’ve had some ‘me’ time as I have written this – I was only interrupted seven times.
My teenager returns home from school. In he walks, with his hormones and his attitude. He doesn’t often forget those, but he needs to be reminded constantly to do his chores and his homework.
The music is off. Two TVs are blaring. One is at the back of the house showing Play School. The other is at the front showing Nickelodeon. I’m in the middle, looking at the clock and thinking, yep, just in time. ‘Arsenic hour’ has just begun.
Ending the Day with Perspective
I’m not worried about being fat anymore.
It’s raining outside. My daughter has been found chewing on a battery. The dog must know the difference between a battery and a biscuit because he has left her to it this time. The house is warm. I look into the front lounge, and all of the kids are sitting quietly in a Nickelodeon trance. One TV is turned off, and it almost feels like silence.
The potatoes are calling me. I’m feeling better.
