“Girl, I mean…I don’t even know how you do it.”
I glare at my friend intently and wonder if my glare had the power to cause a pimple to pop up on her left cheek. How crazy would that be? Could you imagine having such powers?
I’m kidding really but mostly I was annoyed.
“You’re such a supermom,” she says.
And I blow out a stream of air and roll my eyes so hard that I almost give myself a headache.
“Nope.“ I tell her through sips of water. “I am not a supermom.”
Listen. I know how to take a compliment. This took some time but at 32 years old, I can definitely be appreciative when people say something nice to me. I am grateful. I thank them and I put a star in my Likable folder. But this whole my being a supermom thing? Girl. No. I’m not accepting this. I don’t want you thinking this about me.
And here’s why….
I know why you say it. You’re impressed at how easy I make this look. You look at me in wonder and amazement and you can’t even begin to understand HOW I gets it done. You’ve missed all of the ugliness that took to create the beauty that you see in front of you. You missed the storm. The storms! All you see are candy coated raindrops.
Please. Eff that.
Here’s the truth – I’m not a supermom. I am not. I don’t want you to think I am. I struggle. Daily, at that. Sometimes before I even open my eyes, I’m crying. I’m crying because at 5:53am, I’m already overwhelmed and I’m hoping that I can avoid eating things I shouldn’t eat. I’m wondering if my son will wake up with bloody wrists from scratching all night (I HATE ECZEMA!) and I’m wondering what drama EB has in store for me. I’m mad at myself for not prepping the crockpot last night and I’m wondering if I turned that article in before the deadline.
But still. I’m thinking about these things and while I’m attempting to calm my head and thoughts a bit more — it’s a process. Between therapy, meditation and being intentional about self-care, more times than not, I fail in the “Just breathe” department. Which is why by 6:00am, I’m tearing up.
I’d rather be praying and thanking God for another day. I’d rather be doing yoga or an intense full body workout or casually making my way to the shower for a 10-minute silent shower while listening to a podcast.
Instead, I’m crying.
The tears quickly dry up because I figure they’re pointless and unproductive.
I don’t feel like supermom.
Somehow I’ve managed to clean and clothe 3 people in under 10 minutes and while I prepped everyone’s meal, fed 1 kid, wiped the nose of another and downed 32 oz of water in a good 20 minutes, I don’t feel like supermom.
I feel exhausted. I feel like rebuking my stomach for being the only stomach in the world that can’t tolerate coffee and has to run on fumes while other parents are on some energy high from coffee.
You tell me I am supermom because you know my husband travels more times than he’s home and you think I’m SOOOOO special because I solo parent and you’re soooo lucky that you’ve got a partner who has never left for more than 2 days. Oh. And you’ve got your mom, your awesome mother-in-law and a sister that you actually like all within 10 minutes from you.
“I couldn’t do that.” you say.
Yes, you could. And yes, you would. Don’t tell me that. It’s not a compliment. It annoys me. We do what we have to do despite the unfavorable conditions.
I’m not super anything.
In fact, I am very human. Very very human. I’m like you. Great at some things and not so great at other things. I need you to know that what you see…it came with sacrifice. Tears. Lots and lots of hopeless nights and wondering if I made the right decisions in life.
Don’t take this to mean that I’m not grateful. Or that I don’t find the time to give myself props. Because I do. I KNOW I work hard. I KNOW I’m a good mom – despite the fact that I may raise my voice too often. Despite the fact that I’m not that patient, I work more than I should and I’m not always a fluffy and patient mom. I’m a good mom. I love my children with every fiber of my being. Every day is not a good day but I wake up the next day and try again.
I’m not a supermom. I especially need my daughter to know this.
Baby, no. Mommy is mommy. She’s not super-anything. She is a very human person with human feelings, human struggles and human successes. If and when she decides to become a mother, I need her to know it comes with struggles. There is no magic. This is real life and it’s full of puke, snot and other liquid’y body fluids that I had to deal with this week alone.
If you want to call yourself a supermom, go for it, girl. We need to do and say things that make us happy but as for me…
As strong as I am…
I am not supermom.