It’s nearly noon, and I’ve been stationed at the kitchen counter forever, chopping up fruit for lunch. Suddenly, the FedEx truck rolls up. In my haste, I realize I left the dogs outside, and they’re giving the delivery person a not-so-friendly reception. With my hair in disarray and still in my pajama pants, I dash out to quiet the barking and retrieve the package. My kids, decked out in a chaotic mix of dress-up attire, wiggle past me to say hi to the FedEx guy.
As I juggle two dogs and three kids, I try to contain the pandemonium of our home from spilling into the neighbor’s view. The dogs bark, the kids push each other, and the delivery guy seems intent on offering treats to my pets, which they clearly don’t want. Thanks for the thought, but maybe it’s best if you just hurry away.
Once I finally wrangle everyone back inside, it dawns on me that I’ve just exposed myself braless to the neighbors and the FedEx guy. Fantastic. My nursing tank, which hasn’t seen use in years, offers less support than a paper towel. My kids look like they’ve just rolled out of a tornado, despite my efforts to get them cleaned and dressed this morning. They’re clamoring to see what’s in the box.
“What’s the FedEx guy’s name?” one child asks, while her twin sister tugs on my shirt, asking, “Does he have a dog?” And the two-year-old pipes up, “I’m SO HUNGRY!” It’s a cacophony of tiny hands and loud voices, and I can’t think straight. I don’t want to raise my voice, but if they keep clinging to me, nobody’s getting lunch because I still have to prepare it.
“Stop touching me. Stop bothering your sister. I really need to make lunch.”
I’m desperate to keep my cool.
“Please don’t take that knife off the counter. Because it’s A KNIFE. Seriously, do I need to spell this out? Can you all just leave the kitchen so I can finish lunch?”
I don’t want to yell.
“You could help by picking up some toys. There’s a mountain of them everywhere. I promise lunch will be ready soon.”
But I end up raising my voice anyway. “Did you just hit your sister again? Stop messing with the trash! GET OUT OF THE KITCHEN RIGHT NOW AND LISTEN TO ME OR NO ONE IS GETTING LUNCH! EVER!”
They finally scatter, but I lost my temper. Great. This is not how I envisioned my day.
I slump down onto the kitchen floor and let the tears flow.
I cry because motherhood feels like an endless cycle of demands.
I cry because I’m exhausted and in need of a shower.
I cry because it’s taking me forever to slice these stupid plums.
And I cry because my kids are incredible—full of life, curiosity, and humor—yet they can be utterly overwhelming. They deserve my patience, and I want to give it to them, but today, it feels buried beneath a mountain of tasks, and I snapped at them instead.
Suddenly, I hear the familiar clatter of dress-up shoes approaching.
“Mommy?”
Oh no, they’ve found me. I quickly wipe my tears away.
“Mommy, why are you sitting on the floor?”
“Oh, I’m just taking a break. Lunch is almost ready.”
But the truth is, I’m not taking a break. I’m breaking.
Days like this, moments like this, when motherhood threatens to overwhelm me, are incredibly tough. I feel as though everything I do is for others, leaving me feeling completely drained. I just want to vanish.
But I take a deep breath and remind myself that not every day is this hard. Not every moment feels this heavy. I think back to the sweetness of this morning when my two-year-old woke up with a beaming smile. Sure, I was tired, but I held her close and savored that moment. And just a couple of days ago, the house was in order. It felt nice.
I may be breaking, but I’m definitely not broken. I’m not sure how I’ll navigate this chaotic phase of motherhood, let alone get through the rest of the day. But for now, I’ll tackle these plums.
With that, I rise and finally finish preparing the fruit. Lunch is nearly ready.