My Name is Mum
Sometimes I think I’m an introvert, often I get those anxious waves. But I’m constantly told by others I’m an extrovert, at least I used to be.
Sometimes I still feel like I have my youth. But these last two years have aged me, my mind is still with my younger body.
I used to think I was organised and clean, but now I forget the day of the week and my cleaning efforts are wiping the sink with my hands while I wash them after nappy changes.
I used to be a motivated energetic person. Now everything’s a bit foggy. I can’t remember the last time I had pure energy that wasn’t handed to me in a steaming mug.
I think I’m a sensitive person, but I also swear like a sailor. I’m in touch with my feelings, but I sometimes suppress them too.
Some days I win at the gentle parenting gig, others I’m yelly Mum. I always hope they remember the cuddles more than the yelling.
Some days I’m really observant, I’ll spot a stain on the carpet a mile away, but others I can’t remember little milestones as they pass the baton between phases so quickly.
Sometimes when someone asks me what I do I say “I’m JUST a stay at home mum”. I know I’m climbing mountains over here, but I’m still dreaming even bigger. Sometimes I feel admitting that makes me ungrateful.
Sometimes it bothers me that people may not like me. I worry about it.
Other days I think 'argh who bloody cares', I’m not changing who I am or making myself smaller for someone else.
I’ve always been pretty positive, but I also feel quite negative at times. When I wake up with no set plans for the day I feel the rain clouds drifting closer.
Some days I put on some makeup, my husband will tell me I look great and I love hearing it. But part of me is still withdrawn. I still feel like I belong so much to the kids and I’m struggling to find the me in “mum”.
Some days I feel complete, others completely alone.
Some days I ache, the kind within. It’s this new love I’m feeling. The kind so big it hurts.
It’s a no wonder we say postpartum pulls you apart and rearranges you. I’m still being rearranged, every day.
Maybe I’ll never fit into a little box.
Maybe being a little all over the place is fine.
Maybe that’s the whole point.