She was really not cut out to be a mom.
She had too much guilt for starters – which squeezed out all the joy she might otherwise have when she did things for herself – ranging from big stuff like having a career to minor items like going to the gym. And then different guilt for not completely loving the entire mommy experience. Because she struggled. Mightily. She found it hard work to be a mother.
Then there was the excessive analytical worrying side of her. Too much worrying in a way that made her stomach churn and her head hurt.
And of course, the constant vulnerability. Every statement she made was a chance for her daughters to chide her, grimace and find fault with her or worse, lunacy.
And let’s not forget her lack of perspective. When things were even slightly off between her and her children, she would become myopically depressed.
Add in the lost years of sleep, the wreckage that was now her body, the mess of divorced parenting and ugh.
Most days, she wanted to peel off all of these thick layers of angst and run away. She wanted her children to know she wasn’t enjoying her ‘parent’ stint any more than they were.
But she was stuck in it now and there would be no running away for her. She was just going to have to muddle through and make the best of it. Cry a lot. Laugh more. And hope for better days.