3:17 AM
Theo screams for me from his room, jolting me awake. I run up the stairs as fast as I can, still half sleeping, silently pleading him not to wake up Savannah too.
I get to the door where he stands and reaches up to me. I pick him up and we go cuddle together in his bed.
Some nights (… mornings), he falls back asleep easily. But, this morning, after fighting the random kicks to the stomach, pats on my face and laying with his head on my head- not the pillow, it’s clear he is up.
5:02 AM
I cave and we go downstairs to lay on the couch with a movie.
It’s the wrong movie.
So, I try music on YouTube.
It’s the wrong song.
The wrong song again.
Again.
And, again.
I am tired. Physically tired. And, so tired of the whining.
I wrestle with my thoughts… Is this the time for a lesson?
A conversation about saying, “please” or being bossy or thankful for that you have. All concepts over the mental capacity of many humans… but, before six AM and with someone under the age of three?
Do I risk waking everyone else up with the tears that inevitably will flow when I just turn the TV off?
Do I have the energy for any of that?
No. No. No. And, no.
Another series of kicks to my thighs as he whines into my shoulder, “The other Baby Shark!”
There are six versions of the song showing on the screen and I have no idea which one he wants. I try one.
“Nooo. The other one,” Theo cries and kicks more, getting frustrated.
And, so am I.
I have been here before. In fact, it happens multiple times a week with a two year old.
Both our patience is thinning and a compromise is no where in sight. If I could just get this right, maybe we would have some reprieve. Maybe I could sleep for thirty minutes instead of thinking all I have to do today and wondering how, on this amount of sleep, it will ever happen.
Of course, I knew how I would do it all.
It would be how I always do it.
After giving everyone a well balanced breakfast, while I ate the remainder of eggs out of the skillet, getting everyone but myself dressed and into school- listening to more “Baby Shark” on repeat the whole way there… I would run into Starbucks. I would get a venti latte with a double shot. This would be how I would survive the day.
I would carry that coffee cup like a badge of honor. Evidence of rising to the motherly call to sacrifice my needs for my children.
I deserve this. Heck, this very well may be the only thing I do for myself all day.
I would look to other mom’s, recognizable by leggings, top knots, and booger smeared shoulders, and air cheers them like, “Mom Life. Amirite?”
Mom Life.
Sacrificing sleep, weight, and personal space to make sure everyone else is comfortable.
Sacrificing the time for basics, like a shower or putting together a cute outfit, while the kids look like a Baby Gap ad.
Sacrificing your goals and ambition, while researching how to prepare your toddler for preschool.
Sacrificing your relationships in fear of hurting the relationship with your child.
… All while clutching coffee that better resembles a milkshake until it is time to drink wine.
This is what we know. The constant refrain from social media to graphic tee-shirts is that “mother’s sacrifice… everything.”
And, yes. If a child was hurt or sick, I don’t doubt that any mother would.
But, this self-sacrificial nature of motherhood that has taken over? The one that is telling us to sacrifice the things you love and care about because they no longer matter? To sacrifice pieces of you because your identity, beyond that as a mom, doesn’t matter? To believe that we, as mom’s, don’t matter?
All that does is makes us not a mom; but rather, a martyr.
And, what happens when we become a martyr? We run the risk of resenting those we have sacrificed for.
True story. By definition:
martyr: (noun)
- a person who is killed because of their religious or other beliefs. (Figuratively speaking, true.)
- a constant sufferer from (an ailment). (Literally speaking, true.)
- a person who displays or exaggerates their discomfort or distress in order to obtain sympathy or admiration. (Gulp…)
So much for self sacrifice. It actually sounds… self serving.
But, we have a choice.
If we are so blessed that our children are not hurt, sick or in pain, we have a choice.
We can play victim to our body, our mind, our circumstances, our whatever telling ourselves that this is just how it is in any situation- not just motherhood. When in reality, it is our choices that are letting us down. Making us settle. Our choice to be a martyr are making us suffer.
Or, not.
We can make a choice and choose to be positive. We can make a choice to- like the cliche says- put on the oxygen mask. We can make a choice, even after a bad choice, to change our habits.
On that couch in the early hours of the morning, I had a choice. Do I just take it? Let this set the tone for the rest of the day? Let myself believe that my latte would be my only joy that day? Let myself believe I don’t matter?
No. No. No. And, no.
I got up. I grabbed a food magazine- one of my most simple joys- that I had neglected reading and sat on the other couch.
There was a little confusion, but no protest. When the song was complete there was a little whining. But, not much. Then, another song started up and another. And, he was fine.
So, was I.
Me.
The mom.
Not the martyr.
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