Mommy Blues

Unfulfilled. That’s what I feel now.

Ungrateful. That’s what I feel thereafter.

I love my kids – don’t get me wrong. But some days, I find myself missing the life I lived before they came around and turned my world upside down. I miss my kids when there not around, too – in case you were wondering. Some days more than others. But after that, I slap myself and go, “Hoi! Shaddap and enjoy your fleeting moments of freedom and independence la!” #torn


I used to be independent. In control. In charge. Self-reliant. Self-assured. Self-sufficient. I felt confident. And competent. Filled with charisma and bubbling over with excitement for Life and all its adventures. Positive. Passionate. Psyched to be alive and enjoying every moment of it. And I thought that because I was that kind of a person, I would be that kind of a mother, too.

But now? I think... not so much so.

My life today is a showreel of perpetual chaos. A never-ending movie with no trailers, drinks, or popcorn to make a bad show better. I watch myself play the struggling, stumbling protagonist in a B-grade movie where no one listens, nothing gets done, and even if it does – someway, somehow by some miracle – nothing quite gets done right. Yesterday, today and every day.

And it’s all on me.

My fault.

My problem to solve.

My heartache to get over.

I sometimes wonder if this is what motherhood is supposed to be like. I’m never on my own – never alone. But the journey sure feels discouragingly lonely at times. Are my struggles like those of every other mom? Or am I the only unlucky one? Orrr... could it be that things just seem so sucky and unlucky for me because I’m actually just a lousy mom?


I’m plagued by insecurities that stem from my many inadequacies. I’m drowning in judgement piled on by others. I’m overwhelmed by the responsibilities that lay before me because of an unpaid and unappreciated role I’ve somehow come to undertake called “Mommy” – a name I’m called more often than my own now.

Mommy.

I have a love-hate relationship with this word. Is Mommy the only thing I am these days? Is this all my identity is wrapped around? Is this merely a role I play for a time in my life? Or has it become me? What happened to Pam? Where has that girl gone? Are we still the same person? Is she still me? Just somewhere I can no longer see? Hiding in the depths of me?


Some days, I can tell very clearly where Mommy ends and where Pam begins. Some days, I can’t. Most days, these days. And as the days of motherhood drone on and on, forever long, I realise that I see and feel the distinction between the two less now than I did before. The lines are blurring, and it makes me miss knowing who I am. Mostly, it makes me miss the me I was before.