If I could cry like my toddler, I would. I’d just throw my hands in the air, scrunch up my face, and let it all go, snot slingin’ and all. But I’m too grown up for that. I can’t cry like my toddler. Instead, I wait until I’m alone and cry like a mom.
I cry hard and silently. I ugly cry sometimes. I cry more than anyone knows. I cry because I can, without fear of judgment or an answer as to why. I cry because it releases the pressure that fills me so full I might burst.
I cry because I forgot my son’s shoes today and he had to wear his rubber yellow rain boots all afternoon. Even to a birthday party, at the bowling alley. I cry because the probability of a full night’s sleep is slim to none, no matter how much I think I need it.
I cry because my child is beautiful. My child is healthy. My child is smart and funny and deserves so much more than what I have to give.
I cry because I made dinner, washed clothes, hung laundry, and picked up toys, just like the night before and the nights before that. And I know I’ll do the same tomorrow, even though I’m worn to a frazzle. Because it has to be done.
I cry because today was a Friday that felt like more like Monday, and I hate Mondays.
I cry because I’m a mom and mom’s have to adult every day, all day, against their own will. Because someone has to be in charge and being in charge is in the fine print of the mom job description with a sad face emoji beside of it.
I cry because the house is always a mess. I’m always a mess, and I’m OCD. That combination would make any woman cry. I cry because tomorrow is another weekday, so in turn another work day, meaning it’s another day someone other than me will ensure my child’s safety, prepare his meals, and love on him while I’m on the clock.
I cry because I doubt my ability to be the mother I want to be, and the mother my son needs me to be. I cry because even though I’m a mom, I’m still someone’s child and crying is every child’s response when they feel overwhelmed. I haven’t found anything more overwhelming than being a mom.
I cry because despite my flaws and the errors of the day, despite the reprimands and time outs, despite me being a first time mom who loses my patience more than I care to admit, I am greeted with a morning hug, a squeal of Mommy, and forgiveness.
I cry because after the tears fall I feel better. I cry because my mommy guilt graciously melts and slides down my cheeks sometimes when it gets too much to bear.
I cry because being a mom is scary. Someone depends on me to lead them through life and keep them safe and kiss their boo boos and pick them up when they fall. What if I fall, too? No one picks up the picker upper, do they?
I cry because my son loves me so big with a pure and consuming love I don’t deserve. And he loves me with this love every single day, no matter what, relentlessly. I cry because this love pushes me to be better every single day, and I don’t know if I can be better.
I cry because sometimes this love is heavy and tears me apart. I cry because no matter how many times it tears me apart this same loves stitches me back together time after time after time, even when I doubt it can. I cry because this big, pure, consuming, weigh me down, cut me to the core love is everything I’ve ever wanted and everything I will ever need.
And that’s something to cry about.
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