Have you ever felt that switch go off inside of you that makes you go from cool, collected, patient mom to...Monster Mom? Where suddenly your eyes get wide and your blood boils and you’re yelling (maybe even screaming) at your child even though you swore you never would? Then as soon as you realize you’re doing it, the guilt and shame and anxiety set in? You’re convinced you just traumatized your child for life and believe for a minute that you’re the worst mother on the planet.
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I’ve been a mom for 3+ years now, and have been working with moms for as much time. Through both first- and secondhand experience, I can confidently say that one of the biggest struggles of motherhood is simply taking care of oneself. I don’t just mean feeding, bathing, and clothing (although those things can be a struggle some days), I mean actually taking time to nourish and flourish.
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Nausea. Food aversions. Sore boobs. Exhaustion. Unpredictable moods. Loss of all motivation to do anything and everything. Zero patience for my 3 year old son. Complete and utter disinterest in any social activity. I feel like I’m describing some weird and depressing disease, but I’m actually describing the last three months of my life as a pregnant woman.
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Just before midnight on December 27, 2015 (my estimated due date), I told Mike “good night,” shut off the lights, and got into bed. Not a minute later, I felt a little pop and some liquid trickle out. I stood up in nervous anticipation.
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