First-time mum, in training. Blogging about this motherhood malarkey from a refreshingly honest perspective.

Riding Solo..

Sometimes I see the coming weeks stretch ahead and I'm filled with nothing but panic and dread at the sheer fucking loneliness of it all. To feel the weight of that extra responsibility so much of the time.
To spend one week crying out for a break, only for your heart to ache for them to come home once they're gone.
To wish for nothing more than five minutes peace, for the silence to scream through the empty house, painfully deafening, when you finally get it.
To have that constant feeling like you've lost yourself. To feel the anxiety of the time that just never stands still. 
To feel sad, exhausted, frustrated, at a loss. To compare yourself to other mum's/dads and feel that pang of envy that they excel at parenting when you are simply muddling through. To go from having the most smooth sailing week to crashing the following and feeling defeated that you can't keep getting it right.

Inane daily mantras of,
"for fucks sake,"
"Give mummy a second, PLEASEEEEEE!"
"AGHHHHH!!!!"
"I AM RIGHT HERE, I JUST NEED TO PEE.... ALONE!!!" (separation anxiety woes - blog post to follow.)

Going it solo was never part of the plan, but life never really goes how we think it will. It's so much harder than I ever could have imagined but I do feel it has made me stronger, and my bond with my son, so much stronger.
There isn't a snoring heap to furiously elbow in a sleepy and disgruntled state at 3 am for the night feed, the 'dummy run', the massacre midnight poo-nuami change. No one to share the weight of it all, to reassure you that you're doing the best you can, you've got this, we'll figure it out, together.
After a long days work when there's no one but you to soothe your overtired, teething baby, the 1340 attempts to eat your dinner before it's stone cold and left abandoned on the kitchen counter.
The routine bedtime battle, the ever so early mornings it could still be considered night when you're eyes are stinging with exhaustion, and your body, a heavy heap, with no one to insist you have an extra hour. The constant whining, tantrums (that is not just on babies part), the fight to just get out the damn door and the utter inconvenience of attempting to push a pram whilst hoisting six bags of messages.
The loneliness of the days spent alone, the unplanned evenings, the solo family events, feeling that guilt that seeps no matter how hard you try to suppress it. The bills that keep piling up and the permanent crease of the brow from the never dulling stress.
All the juggling, the chaos, the worry of getting it 'right', doing it wrong, the sadness that paralyzes, and the frustration that boils.

I miss a life never lived.
The purely romanticized idea of the happy family. The secure unit. Giving my son a baby brother or sister, that I had wanted so much for him already. Our first holiday together, a new home, new adventures. Our own wonderful, simple, yet perfect little life.

I dread times to come.
Where I'll wake on a Christmas morning alone, presents unopened under the tree, because it's Dads turn this year. That perhaps my son will resent me for the choice I made to separate our family, for not trying harder, for getting so much wrong. For the days he'll be left out of school trips or gatherings with friends because with one wage, we're simply scraping by. That I won't be able to give him everything I had so hoped. That I won't be providing the best I could.

In spite of it all, on the days where I spend more time fighting back the tears, or a baby clinging to my arm, or it just never feels like it's getting any easier, I get through. 
Despite, life, in all it's ever hounding hindrance, time keeps passing, and we power through. 
Somehow.




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