Breaking The Boredom Of Parenting

Can we talk for a second about how boring being a mom is? I know I should be and I am grateful to be the main carer to my three beautiful children. Yes I love them and would die for them.

Now that I’ve got the obvious shit out of the way, there are times I don’t like them very much and there are times when they act like complete and utter assholes and I worry that I am fucking up the only job I have.

Yes I know how lucky I am that I don’t have to balance a full time job with looking after my brood but lets be honest whether you work or don’t work, both are challenging in different ways. And both come with their own burdens and struggles along the way. I envy working moms and working moms envy the time I have with my kids. And I assume everyone envys the part-time working moms who have the best of both worlds, they get to be an adult with a career and a grown up job and they get to be a mom. That must be hitting the jackpot if you happen to have a job and career that you love. The grass is always greener right? I used to have a brain.

I used to go to work and have intellectually stimulating conversations with other adults. I miss that and I worry I will never get it back.

When I dream, the backing track is the music from the opening sequence of Dora the Explorer. I shit you not. It’s tormenting me even in my sleep. And sometimes I feel trapped in a prison of my own making yet the thought of anything happening to any of my kids fills me with fear and a constant low-level anxiety that has somehow seeped into every pore of my being and has become part of my every day life.

One thing I was not at all prepared for, other than you know, the overwhelming responsibility of raising human beings, was the utter monotony, mundaneness and mind numbingly boring aspect of the job.

Today is Wednesday. I have been to the nearest playground for four days in a row now, Yes I have changed the clothes I’ve been wearing, but that is the only difference. I walked the same route, put the buggy in the same spot, pushed the swing, went into a trance as if I was watching the pendulum swinging imagining it is counting down to my execution in the 1800’s. I sang the same song over and over again to my demanding two-year-old, ‘Tomorrow’ from the Annie soundtrack. The irony of those lyrics is not lost on me by the way. Yes it’s only a day away but guess what, tomorrow I will be doing the exact same fucking thing. I will just be wearing a different outfit doing it.

Then there is the guilt, Ah yes, the guilt. And I have the worst type of guilt, Irish catholic guilt.

I should be enjoying this special time with my child. I will never get this time back, so all the oldies in the supermarket tell me when I’m trying to keep calm as my toddler attempts to eat a kinder egg through the wrapping before I can prise it out of her hands. Oh the pressure to enjoy every second pushing this swing and singing this same song over and over again when really I would rather be doing anything else. Anything.

Maybe I should take all my clothes off and run around the playground screaming. But then I would be sectioned and hospitalized and my kids would be taken off me so that’s a bad plan. But at least the day would be different than yesterday or the day before yesterday or the day before that. I saw a cop car today and considered speeding or doing donuts just to get pulled over so that today could be the day I got pulled over by cops instead of the day I picked up the kids from school and went to the playground…AGAIN….

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