This is Why

I didn't want to come back, ever. Packing an overnight bag felt powerful, freeing. Being around them brought such intense feelings.  I felt hatred toward them and defeat. These feelings had been with me for weeks and I couldn’t shake them.  I wondered why I had ended up here, a mother of five. I would gladly trade them in.

I googled, “What to do if you hate your children”, some pretty ugly discussions popped up. I didn't sincerely hate them I just didn't have any desire to be around them. Someone always had a hang nail, or was pushing the boundries, there was fighting, I was constantly nagging them to contribute to the family if only by flushing the toilet, I was embarrassed by their appearance, I struggled every day to find the desire to leave my bedroom door to the hell that awaited me, motherhood.

I scoffed at the women that claimed that they had always wanted to be a mother and they found joy in their children. I didn’t understand how that was humanly possible. What was wrong with me? I must be a terrible mother.

I questioned why in the world I was “blessed” with five children. I am not capable of handling five. The thing that made me the most apprehensive was the fact that we were just beginning the teen years. 

I don’t yet possess the skill to “not react” as every seasoned parent stresses is the most important when dealing with your children’s absurdly stupid choices. I am a terrible candidate for motherhood.

I hated the fact that I treated my family so terribly. I gave them the worst of me.

Maybe it doesn’t seem like much but, moms out there know it is impossible to do it all. Especially when you have too many kids. I constantly reminded them that the only reason we have such an untidy, boarder line filthy house is because of them. Do you really think my house would look like this if I didn’t have any kids? I once announced that if I was doing what I truly wanted with my life I wouldn’t be a mom. That was probably going too far. But that is honestly what I believed. I hated my life.

I ran to my best friend’s house where I found sanctity. I decided I didn’t want to go home. However, it would be unfair to my husband to try to find child care, so I conjured up the plan to go home to do my duties and take care of the two year old during the day but retreat to some unknown destination every evening. I would be content sleeping in the van with the seats down in a secure, well lit parking lot, the hospital perhaps. Then they would surely miss me and appreciate all that I do. My husband needed to feel my anguish. I didn’t really want to punish him but he hadn’t really been listening to my pleas in the past few weeks as I told him, “This is too much, I can’t do it. I’m not capable.”

The logistics of it all weren't realistic so, I returned to the place of my affliction for more mistreatment.

The next morning went the same as every morning. I had to get out of bed to wake the lazy middle-schoolers who for some reason don’t like to use their alarm clocks. Then I woke up the elementary age children one of who I must give instruction to for the whole ninety minutes he is awake before taking him to school. If he ventures upstairs during any portion of the routine, forget about it. It could be days before he comes out and in the same condition as he went up, smelly, not dressed, teeth grimy, cat not fed. Yet a Lego castle has been constructed.

Once they were all gone, the baby and I were off to run errands, do some work for one of my three jobs and hit the grocery store since it is impossible to stay stocked up on just the necessities with a house full.

The day is almost over, we still have dinner to prepare and share as a family at our table which is one chair short for our family of seven. I’ve told the family that either the dog goes or mom goes. The pet lovers snickered as they whispered, “We’d rather keep the dog, she’s going to run away again any way”.  They were taunting me the way they would a substitute teacher. I was weak from the past few weeks of struggling with the idea of even living with them and I found myself sobbing uncontrollably. I took my plate upstairs to dine alone in the bedroom our two year old called her own. I ate what little I could choke down and threw myself on my bed. Yep, I hated them.