I hate being a mom.

I'll admit it. And millions will judge me. Well, that's funny because most likely very few will read this. But those that do will judge me. CPS could possibly be knocking at my door very soon. And that would really be unnecessary because although I hate being a mom, I also like being a mom, and at times I even love it. But today, right here, right now, in my honest heart of hearts, I hate it. I hate that after working a long. ass. day, I have to go pick up my daughter from preschool only to get a bad report (for the 2nd time this week) that my child is really having a difficult time listening and doing what she's told. She just wants to talk to her friends and play and not stand in line and not eat her lunch and ask her teacher the same questions over and over and over again because she thinks maybe the next time they won't say "no." And after listening to the report (that kind of makes me giggle inside a tiny bit because I was that same damn kid), I walk with my child hand in hand, carrying her LOADS of stuff outside to the car where I spend the next 10 minutes telling my kid to "follow me, hold my hand, don't go that way, our car is over here, you're going to get hit by a car, please hold my hand, don't pick up whatever that piece of filth is off the ground, please don't touch those plants, pay attention, stop letting go of my hand!" Then I open the door and spend the next 2-3 minutes coaxing her to actually get in the car. Lately this does the trick: "do you want to get in the car all by yourself or do you want me to put you in the car?" Her three year old "I DO EVERYTHING ALL BY MYSELF I DON'T NEED YOUR HELP" pride kicks in and so she climbs up in her carseat. But the feat isn't over. She must fasten the buckle, and demand the air conditioner NOT be pointed at her (even though it's 110 degrees in the car). Then demand for her window to be open. Again, in the 110 degree weather. And then, we spend the ten minute long car ride home discussing whatever she might want to tell me about the day. It usually sounds like this: "Mama, I got put in time out, mama. I wasn't listening, mama. My friend Kamryn hit her friend and that was not berry nice, mama. Mama, Miss Jenny put Kamryn on a break, mama." Cute right? Until every. single. sentence. for a full 10 minutes starts and ends with the word "mama." And every word demands my full attention. Not to mention the fifteen times she says "mama, wook at me, mama" fully expecting me to turn around while driving to watch her make a face or say one thing or demand another. And the offense she feels when I tell her for the fifteenth time "I can't look at you baby girl, I have to drive the car." Then we get home. Then... yep, you guessed it, the coaxing begins to now get her OUT of the car, and to walk down the path and up the stairs to our condo. I'll save you what that 5-7 minutes sounds and looks like because it's very similar to the walk from preschool to the car. Forehead: meet the wall. Over, and over, and over... And FML too. What should take no more than 14 minutes from start to finish (including 10 minutes of drive time) takes double that time, filled with frustration and annoyance. While the other folks without kids leave the building, start their cars right up and drive away. Must be nice.

Let me interject for a moment. I can hear you readers. Some of you anyway, (most likely without children), thinking one of a few things:

Judgy person number one might be thinking something like "oh hell no, if my kid ever acted like that I'd do _______ to him/her."

Judgy person number two might be thinking "is she seriously complaining about this? I CAN'T HAVE CHILDREN! She has no clue how lucky she is."

Judgy person number three might be thinking something like "if this is her biggest problem in life, then she needs to get a life."

And all three judgy people would have a point. And I can't fault these imaginary judgy people for thinking or feeling this way because they aren't me, they don't have my life, and they don't have my child. They cannot begin to understand what a day in my shoes is like, and for that, let's just say ignorance is bliss.

To continue here, let me just start by saying that after working a nine hour day, the scene above has only accounted for about 30 minutes of the rest of my evening. I still have to battle dinner, bath time, pajamas, teeth brushing, and bed. Plus EVERYTHING in between. As I type this, she is playing with her stuffed animals and trying to stuff them in my bra. Dead serious. And the messes. The constant cleaning up of all messes. And the laundry. And I'M STARTING NURSING SCHOOL, PEOPLE. I think I'm setting myself up for *another* nervous breakdown...

Having a child is exhausting. I mean, your head hits the pillow at night and you're so tired you can't even sleep, exhausting. And you know why you can't sleep? Because you lay down and you worry. You fret. You fear for your child's future, and you question yourself, and you feel guilty about your parenting. And you feel guilty while watching them sleep so sweetly and so soundly that you hated being their mom today. That they made you so angry that you yelled at them, or lost your patience with them, or that you wanted to run away and never come back. Or lock yourself in the closet and cry until the tears ran dry. And you cry. You cry because you miss the days when they weren't around. You miss the days when you could spend your weekends on the couch watching grown up shows. You feel guilty for choosing to write a blog instead of spending quality time with them. You find yourself increasingly jealous of your friends who don't have kids who can do anything they want any time because they're free from the burden and responsibilities of children. And you feel guilty for thinking of your child as a burden. But honestly, they rely on you for their very being. They wouldn't eat, or have shelter, or have their thousands of needs met every single day without you. Before I had my child, I was struggling to meet my own needs every day. Now I'm meeting someone else's. I have to be ALL things to this child at ALL times. Someone who is innocent and pure and filled with awe and wonder and unconditional love for me. And sometimes I hate being her mom. How terrible, right? BUT IT'S TRUE.

I'm tired. I'm 30 and I feel 65 because I'm exhausted. I'm depressed. I'm anxious. I'm a mess. And sometimes I don't want to do it anymore. But I know there's no other choice. And I know this is a season. And seasons change. But I would be lying if I said I don't feel like I'm running 60 mph in a hamster wheel that is getting me no where. And my story is different because I am a single mom, and I don't have the help of a significant other. And I don't get a break very often. Rarely, actually. I do have my family and friends, however. And without them, I don't even want to imagine.... I can't begin to imagine how this would feel or what this blog would sound like. I know there are so many more moms who have it worse. I know people exist that have such bigger worries and concerns for their children. For God's sake, my child is healthy. I get it. But you know what, it doesn't make my pain any less. It doesn't take away from my struggle. It doesn't make my day to day any easier. It doesn't make the responsibility any less. It doesn't make it any less real that I alone am responsible for raising this child up right and having to put in the real hard time and effort to do so. It doesn't take any pressure off my shoulders at all. I cry with you moms whose children are sick. And my heart groans for the parents who have lost children or can't have children. I shake my fists at God with you! And to the expecting moms, or the not-yet-moms, don't let this blog scare you or discourage you, because if there's one thing I CAN say, it's that it's worth it. It's hard. It's so. damn. hard. But NOTHING in life that is easy is worth anything. The harder the struggle, the bigger the reward. That's been the truth for all the struggles in my life thus far, anyway. And I LOVE my child. I love her with every fiber of my being. She's why I do this. Day in and day out. SHE is worth it. And there are the sweetest most tender moments between her and me that make all of this other stuff disappear. It vanishes in those moments. And those moments give me the push I need to keep going until the next one.

And so here's what I don't want. I don't want parental advice. Seriously, I will punch you. I don't want to hear the way you have managed to have or raise 15 perfect children with your tried and true process. I don't want to hear it. I pick my battles and let others slide because I KNOW my kid. You don't. I don't want advice on how to FIX my situation. There's no fixing this. Only going through it. I don't want ANYONE diagnosing my kid with anything based on one example of a tough day. She's 3. That's her diagnoses. My only hope for this blog, and really the only reason I'm choosing to actually share it (I don't share many of my blog posts), is because if there is at least ONE other mom in the world who feels this way and thinks she's alone, I want her to know she's not. I want her to know I'm here. I'm doing it too. I love my kid and sometimes I hate being a mom, all at the same time.