The Truth Is, Motherhood Is A Little Bit Of Everything—And That’s Okay

I collapse on the large gray sofa now covered with stains I’m too exhausted to even attempt to clean. It immediately swallows me. It was an exceptionally hard day, and believe me, I’ve grown used to these so much since becoming a mother that even the exception has become my norm. The gloomy weather doesn’t help, either. The sky and my sofa are the exact same color.

From my spot, I glance at the kitchen sink overflowing with dirty pans and dishes. The recycling bin is full of wrapping paper, flattened toy boxes and an empty bottle of dry white wine I finished last night. Under my feet are cushions and blankets covering the entire living room floor. The windows are stained with little handprints and colorful doodles that look three dimensional on the double slide glass. It’s awfully silent now that he’s finally asleep. So quiet that I’m starting to hear myself think and it’s making me uncomfortable. I’m wishing I had more dry white wine, then another thought of self-awareness reminds me that I’ve been drinking way more than I should.

I’m haunted by the cleaning and tidying which needs to be done while all I want to do is relax on this large gray sofa swallowing me with a good book or a good show. Or maybe I’m haunted by this feeling of loneliness? How do I feel so alone when my head is racing with thoughts? Why am I even sad to be alone when this is what I’ve wanted all day, in between my nine to five at the office and my five to nine at home?

I walk into his room and watch him sleep. His chest climbs up and down. His sweet smell fills the messy room and makes my breasts tingle, an unsolicited gift I got with motherhood and breastfeeding. He smiles in his sleep, as cliché as it sounds, which according to my grandmother means angels are talking and playing with him. I smile back, even though it feels like only demons are talking and playing with me.

I reluctantly walk back out to start my cleaning frenzy. I pick up the cushions and blankets on the floor, the traces of the “tent” we built together. A space barely big enough to fit the two of us, and just small enough for me to smell his sweet scent which makes my mama breasts tingle. The 3D doodles stare back at me. In one corner it reads our names, a formalization of our status as “best friends” as he told me repeatedly before he went to sleep. In the other, a tiny yellow sun whose rays carry me back to the summer we spent home by the sea.

The dirty dishes in the sink are still overflowing, but they’re not a mess either. They’re what’s left of the delicious food my mom made for us. A reminder of my own incapability to cook, but also of the only way mom has ever known how to show love. The recycling still needs to be taken out, but it’s not clutter either. It holds the wrapping paper and gift boxes from Noah’s belated birthday party, a barbecue with the few close friends we made in the last year since we moved here.

The large sofa, the color of today’s sky, is still stained, but it’s a sign of his independence, wanting to feed himself, and his clumsiness, undoubtedly inherited from me.

It’s still awfully silent, too quiet I can hear my own thoughts, but I no longer feel uncomfortable.

Yes, motherhood is lonely and crowded at the same time, under and overwhelming, exhausting and rewarding. It’s the chaos you never knew you needed to get everything in your life in order. It’s the imbalance that gives you stability, only now around a new center. It’s the vulnerability that makes you the strongest version of yourself. It’s both the angels and demons taking turns talking and playing with you. It’s both the glass half-full and half-empty.

I hold the empty bottle of dry white wine, but no longer wish I had more. I don’t need it tonight. Tonight, I think, I feel, I write.

Tonight, my glass is full.