There he is, nestled in my arms, his little bald head resting against my chest. He’s milk-drunk, letting out deep sighs as he drifts off to sleep. Meanwhile, his two older sisters are dancing around the living room, twirling and giggling, creating a scene that could be straight out of a feel-good movie. To anyone peeking through our window, we look like the perfect family, living a blissful life.
But here’s the truth: this week has been a whirlwind of chaos. I’ve shouted at all three of my kids. I’ve cried, begged for a moment of peace, and even muttered curses under my breath. Maybe it’s the lingering sickness from last week, the impending full moon, or just the sheer madness of motherhood — whatever it is, it has turned our home into a circus.
My five-year-old is on a mission to drive me up the wall, snatching toys from her siblings and avoiding any request I make like it’s a game. My two-year-old, once my sweet little angel, has transformed into a tempestuous whirlwind, hurling her applesauce across the room because she can’t stand the thought of me stepping away for just a moment. And the baby? The little cutie who used to sleep like a champ is now pulling late-night stand-up routines, waking up at all hours and refusing to nap longer than thirty minutes.
I’ve lost it more times than I’d like to admit. I’ve found myself saying to the baby, “You’ll just have to cry because I can’t pick you up right now,” even when my heart screams to hold him. I’ve wished away the years, longing for the day when they’ll be more self-sufficient and this madness will ease up.
There have been moments when I felt the rage bubbling inside me, and I worried I might go too far. I didn’t, thankfully, but the fear was real. I told my husband, “This is how it happens. This is how parents reach their breaking point.” It’s a gut-wrenching realization that I hate to acknowledge. Have I bitten off more than I can chew? And what about that fourth baby I still dream of? (Yes, even in my lowest moments, I’m looking ahead.)
Is it just me? Am I the only one feeling like I’m flailing in the turbulent waters of parenthood? There are days when I truly despise this job. I know I shouldn’t; we fought so hard to have these three kids who call us “Mommy” and “Daddy.” I should appreciate every single moment, and I do… mostly. When things are good, they’re really good. The kids snuggle, laugh, and even say “thank you” when prompted. We enjoy trips to the zoo, cozy story times, and the pure joy of eating raw cookie dough. I capture these moments in photos, and they fill me with warmth.
But those beautiful moments don’t erase the chaos. When the kids are all crying, when nobody wants to share, or when someone’s up all night needing me — that’s when I feel completely overwhelmed. The baby demands constant bouncing, and I trip over a mountain of toys that I swear I’m about to toss out because I can’t bear to pick up one more little figurine.
I feel like I’m drowning. It’s a tough pill to swallow, and there’s no going back. All I can do is take a deep breath and keep doggie-paddling, hoping that it’s enough. Yet, here’s my fear: surviving isn’t thriving. It’s not what my kids need, and it’s not what I need either. I feel like a failure. I feel defeated. I tell myself all sorts of ugly things. But beneath that negativity, there’s a flicker of hope — a voice that whispers: “Tomorrow is a new day. Tomorrow, you can try again.”
And I will. I will always try.