The motherhood blues

In my previous life, long before I became a mum, I used to look forward to my weekends all week; to lazy lie-ins, meeting friends in town for lunch, pottering around the shops and buying something new to wear out that night. Years of looking forward to weekends means my brain still automatically does so, but it hasn’t copped on to the fact that these days, the weekends are no longer a break.

 

Yes, you get to stay in bed slightly later than on school mornings and there isn’t the frantic rush to make lunches and get everybody out the door on time, but instead of school runs, you have hurling and swimming and birthday parties, etc. Being a working mum means the weekend is my only proper chance to catch up on housework and laundry and the millions of other jobs that there never seems to be time to get to.

 

It’s Monday morning as I write this and I’m going to be brutally honest here: right now, I’m sick and tired of motherhood! Every day I count my blessings that I have three happy, healthy children who I love more than I could ever have thought possible. Of course, I wouldn’t choose to go back to my pre-mummy days (I don’t think that’s an option anyway, is it?), but let’s admit it, there are times when it all becomes a bit Groundhog-Day-ish.

 

I am so sick of getting down on my hands and knees to clean spilt juice off the floor; I am sick of rinsing out soiled underpants after another ‘accident’; I’m sick of cajoling three children to eat breakfast and get dressed every morning; I’m sick of the constant mess that spills from the playroom into every other room of the house; I’m sick of cleaning up and hoovering, of sorting and putting away clothes and I’m sick of the laundry mountain that threatens to erupt from our utility room.

 

I’m also sick and tired of worrying all the time. I was always a bit of a worrywart but since the birth of my first daughter six years ago – followed 18 months later by her brother and then three years ago by her sister – there just seems to be so much more to worry about: their health, their diet (and in particular Princess Firstborn’s aversion to fruit and veg), their development, starting school (which brought all my own separation anxiety back), the bitchiness among girls which I was shocked to find starts as early as first class. The list goes on and on and on.

 

Yes, I know there are plenty of lovely women out there in their late thirties and early forties who have not yet met Mr Right or even Mr He’ll Do The Job Fine, who dream of being married with kids. And there are lots of couples struggling with fertility problems who dream of having babies. I know how lucky I am, but some days, it’s bloody hard being a mum and that’s the truth of it. Anybody else agree?

 

Michelle McDonagh is a freelance journalist working from Blarney, Co Cork. She’s a mum of three children aged 2, 4 and 5, and a firm believer in 'good enough' parenting, bribery and the healing powers of chocolate.

 

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