Being a mom is hard... Let's undomesticate motherhood

Let's be honest. Sometimes being a mom just sucks. Being a mom is hard. We are supposed to act like this is the best thing that ever happened to us and we are #blessed, and yeah we are... but. 

There's the but. Some days are rough. I wrote this on one of those rough days, and thought there's gotta be some moms out there who can relate, right? 

Maybe if I, and enough other moms, share the shitty parts too we can undomesticate motherhood. Show that we are multi-dimensional beings. That our entire life isn't only about our kids. We have hopes, dreams, fears, and more. 

Tell me what you think mama. 😘

There’s something intensely satisfying in watching Bey smash those windows. To just release that wildness inside of her, holding nothing back. The pure feeling of joy even in madness.

Being cooped up inside through this winter is making my soul scream for that wild joyful madness.

If I spend one more day watching another Disney Junior show with my toddler I’m going to take her yellow plastic toy bat and smash the shit out of our flatscreen then take the pieces outside to our fire pit and burn it after smothering it in gasoline.

Sound extreme?

If you have spent even just an hour watching PJ Masks (or insert any kids show here), you will know it is not extreme. In fact, you’ve probably envisioned something similar.

This domestication of mothers is making me want to literally vomit.

Have you ever been a zoo? Seen animals doing weird shit? Or some that won’t even look up anymore when people tap on their cages? Some who just lay there as if they’re dead, even though you can see their chest rise and fall?

Yeah… that's how I feel sometimes lately.

While I felt smothered and trapped in a 9-5 job that didn’t fulfill me anymore, I now feel just as smothered and trapped inside of the tiny world I’ve now created for myself.

Wake up. Make breakfast. Put on cartoons for the kid. Check social media. Check email. Try to think of something interesting to say on my page.

Don’t get me wrong… these are first world problems I’m dealing with here. But they can be soul crushing.

When I was pregnant, I didn’t imagine sitting here on this couch surrounded by toys, snacks, an iPad, a dog that seriously needs a bath, and a toddler who is still in her PJ's at 2:56 p.m.

No… I imagined me and my wild little girl running outside through fields. Laughing. Screaming. Running. Chasing. Yeah…that’s literally what I imagined during a guided meditation while pregnant.

My reality though is a messy living room with cartoons blaring while I'm working on my Mac being intermittently interrupted by calls for snacks from my little angel.

And yeah… I know I should be grateful. I’m totally an advocate of practicing gratitude. But sometimes you have to be real with yourself and say… Damn it, this just sucks.

I want more.

I want to feel alive and excited, not trapped in a crumb laden, toy-strewn, Groundhog Day without even the comic relief of Bill Murray.

For some reason today I felt this strong connection to zoo animals and so I did a little googling. If found this bit in a Slate article: 

Zoos are, first and foremost, for people—not animals. Zoos exist to serve the human gaze. This is a problem because, “most animals don’t want to be stared at—that’s stressful. And an animal that you can’t see, that’s a pretty crappy zoo exhibit.”

It made me think...as mothers/women, who’s gaze are we serving and where are people watching from? It’s not as if someone is creeping outside my house and peeking in through the window. (At least I hope not.)

But this thing on my lap. This computer is the thing that is giving people a peek inside here.

And who is watching?

I’m sure if I dig deep enough I would find a reason to blame the patriarchy. 😂 But really most of my connections on social media are other women and mostly other moms.

So how am I serving their gaze vs. my own?

I try my damnedest to be authentic and show what motherhood, womanhood, business, and life are really like for me. The truth is, though, it is so filtered.

I don’t talk about the things that really bother me:

About the clients I didn’t land. That thinking about breastfeeding my toddler one more time makes me wanna run for the hills. That I haven’t shaved my armpits in a week. Oh…how about that fantasy I had yesterday of leaving my husband at home, dropping my toddler off at my mom's and checking into a hotel for a few days just to be alone? (actually that last one I am seriously going to do.)

How about the epic fight my husband and I had over money the day before yesterday that led to me crying alone in the bathroom for an hour?

No. Instead I stick to talking about yoga pants and mom buns.

Here’s why… I’m trying to put out posts and videos for you, and not for myself. Yeah, everyone says as a blogger to write to your ideal reader/client. Blah blah blah. But that shit isn’t working for me.

What this has created is me trying to be authentic but totally missing the mark. On the inside, I feel like one of the women who takes an Instagram photo with #nomakeup, but she’s obviously got a full face and set of lashes on. I’ve been hiding. Hibernating.

Well… no more. (And no this doesn’t mean I won’t wear makeup because I love me some makeup sometimes.)

It means… I’m writing for myself now.

I’ve declared this period of hibernation over many times already. But just like I can’t control when winter ends, I feel like I don’t have full control over the end of this chilly period in my soul.

It’s like that unseasonably warm February we just had. Just when I felt those warm breaths of spring breezing around outside, this bitch Stella had to come and smoother me again with frigid, icy winds.

But guess what? Spring is about to push through the ground. The flowers will pop out with vengeful color and warmth.

The sun will burn away the snow and I’ll be outside running through a field with my wild girl, laughing, singing, and playing.

I’m breaking out of my cage.

I have no idea what this will look like in the end. But here we go.