The Hard Days

There are days when I wish I wasn’t home; not in my living room, not in my kitchen, not in my house at all.

There are days I’d like to feel as if my body belongs to just me; that it wasn’t needed for food or comfort or sleeping. That instead of waiting for the next need, I could sit back, scrunch into the side of the couch, and turn the direction my head just happens to fall.

There are days when I worry I’m doing a terrible job.

There are days when I don’t feel like smiling, when I don’t feel like doing the work for a laugh.

There are days when I wish I wasn’t at home, but also not at work. There are days I’m not quite sure where I’d like to be.

There are days when rest is such a distant future I want to cry. There are days I do.

There are days when being a mother doesn’t feel like enough, when all the other things done don’t amount to much.

There are days when I feel judged; a failure, a nobody, a mom.

There are days when I don’t feel like writing. When the stories and the advice and the comedy just can’t be found.

There are days when I can’t guess what his cries mean, when food, sleep, and comfort just aren’t the answers.

On these days I try my best. I smile the smiles, I laugh the laughs.

I dry the tears fast.

On these days I need to remember what my mom has always told me: that this too shall pass.

These days are few and far between.

I know this is temporary. I know this won’t last.

It’s just one of those days.

Advertisements