Confessions of a Burnt Out Mom

{let me just say at the outset of this posting that, more than anything, i just need a spot to vent for a minute. mike and i barely have time to talk anymore because we are so tired, and i rarely have a spare moment to call or email any of my uber supportive friends. so i'm eeking out a moment to type up an entry in honor of my recent hysteria and exhaustion, so that i can at least get it out somewhere. i'm not expecting advice or wisdom, and certainly am not looking to worry anyone. just venting.}

Though I've only got three years of parenting under my belt, I've come to believe that moms have the longest ropes. But even mothers' ropes have to end somewhere, and I reached the end of mine this week. Maybe it's because I'm battling a cold and feel downright exhausted most of the time. Maybe it's because I've had no childcare for a couple weeks, and the goal of completing my final dissertation chapter before the New Year seems irrational at this point. Or maybe two months post-partum is the magical turning point when everything finally explodes. Whatever it is, I've truly hit the wall. For the past few mornings, I wake up and feel immediate dread that I have to face an entire day--alone--with my children. How terrible is that? All I really want to do is stay in bed and cuddle with Gavin. He's warm, he's quiet, he's easy to please, and he's sweet. And he is mostly neglected these days, because he's far too willing to lie in a bouncy seat or on the changing pad and wait for me to come back after running around like a chicken with my head cut off after his older brothers. At some point, poor Gavin will have to learn to speak up for himself in order to claim some attention or he'll get trampled by the other needy individuals in the house. Most mornings my teary outbursts are responses to sudden feelings of guilt over not being able to give him the attention and interaction he deserves, or that the others received when they were babies. The few moments I carve out each day to stare into Gavin's eyes and sing or talk to him, he kicks his legs and smiles and gets so excited. It makes me cry that he's like a little neglected puppy, so happy someone is finally interacting with him.

Benjamin is a doll, but 18 (well, in a few days, make that 19) months is a trying age. He's too young to discipline or to "get it" when I try to explain what's off limits, but still agile enough to do so many dangerous and irksome things that he needs constant monitoring.

Jack, however, is my challenge. I'm finding age three to be much, much more difficult than age two was. He is not just testing limits now, he's outrightly defying them because he KNOWS what's not allowed. I tell him time and again not to do things, and he does them with an evil laugh as fast as he can, just to get a reaction out of me. My patience is wearing thin, and while I know everything he does is developmentally appropriate, I can't seem to let things roll off me as easily as I should. I feel horrible admitting it, but while I always love Jack, recently there are moments when I just do not like him. His aggressive behavior toward his siblings, friends, and our cats, his obsession with doing the opposite of what I ask him to do, and his absolute destructive behaivor around the house is driving me mad.

I reached an alltime low on Friday, when after 8 hours of trying to manage three kids who were pent up inside while I felt like death warmed over, I lost it moments before Mike got home. Between a shattered light bulb that left tiny specks of glass all over the carpet, two toddlers covered in mud, and my 3-yr-old literally beating the crap out of his younger brother, I started yelling like a mad woman with my almost gone voice and yanking Jack around to get him cleaned off. The fact that he was not the least bit frightened of mommy's mad voice, and in fact, found it so funny that he kept hitting me and laughing in a demonish way and running away (still covered in mud) just pushed me over the edge. Mike walked in and I promptly demanded he take them away and that I didn't want to see or be around them anymore. Clutching Gavin on the couch, I bawled to myself for awhile. It didn't last long, and soon after I felt embarrased and ashamed at my break down and childish behavior toward my 3-yr-old who was being, well, three. But since then I've had a dark cloud hanging over my parenting attitude, and a much shorter fuse than ever before. I'm looking forward to Jack beginning his early preschool program in January more than ever because I simply need a little break. It's only 2 mornings a week, for a couple hours each time, and I'll still have two other kids to juggle, but dear god, I NEED a break of some sort. And he needs to learn some structure and discipline from someone other than me. Because god knows he's not listenting to Mike and I.

I have to wonder where the line is between post-partum depression and simply being burnt out. I'm sure I'm just burnt out, but it truly must be a paper thin boundary.