In the beginning, every day was a bad day. I got used to it. When I occasionally made it through a morning or an afternoon without crying, without wondering how in the hell I was going to survive this new and strange life that was thrust upon me, it seemed like a miracle.
Now bad days are very rare. Most days are good days with the occasional bout of “mommy grumpies” and the need for a glass of wine. But truly bad days? Very rare.
That’s why when they do happen, they hit hard.
I have had a couple in the past week. Days where I just want her to be normal. I selfishly want a day without diapers. Without the f’ing stares. Without carrying 52 lbs of dead weight around so much that my back and biceps ache at bedtime. A day when a friend stops over and asks her if she wants to go for a bike ride and she’s able. A day where she gets invited over to someone’s house to play or a sleepover. A day when I can take my eyes off her fo 5 seconds. I day where she doesn’t destroy her room. A day without pee on something. A day where I can paint her toenails and fingernails. A day of normal.
It’s the harsh truth right there.
The worst part about these days is they make me feel like the worst mother in the world. Because I love her so much it hurts, yet on these days, I want someone else. And so on top of the bad day, the worst guilt imaginable is now on my shoulders. That’s when I just want to take a couple of Tylenol PM and crawl under the covers until it goes away. It’s a terrible feeling.
Luckily these days are very rare. But man they hit hard.
I love her so much and I just have to hold on to that.