We’ve officially been out of school and on summer vacation for three weeks.
And for three weeks I have been working from home with five kids here all day long.
My husband has been working a lot and hasn’t been around much, and for three weeks, I have been taking all the kids to the pool with me every afternoon, and coaching practice while the little ones continuously interrupt me.
For three weeks I have had kids around me 24/7.
We have done some fun things.
We have gone to parties and we’ve gone hiking by a waterfall and we have gone to the beach and we have eaten ice cream and made s’mores and ridden bikes and made a big ass mud puddle and watched an outdoor movie and lots of other great summery things.
And I love being a mom.
I really do.
I love my kids more than anything.
And I really fucking love summer.
I wait all year long for it.
But I have to say something.
I’m sick of my kids.
I said it.
And I can’t believe it’s only been summer for three weeks.
I feel like I’ve been home with them for six months.
I know I should be grateful that they are all healthy.
I know I should be grateful they are all alive.
I know there are mothers and fathers who have kids who are sick or who have died whom they miss terribly.
I know there are people out there who aren’t even able to have kids.
I know there are people who will read this and say, “What a horrible thing to say. She has no idea how lucky she is. I’d gladly trade places with her.”
I know I’m lucky.
I know I have a lot to be thankful for.
But I think I’ve realized that my limit for being with the kids around the clock with essentially no time to myself is officially three weeks.
I ‘m shot.
I don’t particularly want to do anything with them.
I don’t want to hang out with them. I don’t want to put sunscreen on them. I don’t want to watch TV with them or put them to bed. I definitely don’t want to load them into the car. I don’t want to think about what I’m going to feed them. I don’t want to be patient and I don’t want to internally and silently count to ten multiple times a day.
I don’t want to be climbed on. I don’t want to be touched. I don’t want to hear crying. Or whining. I most certainly do not want to hear the words There’s NOTHING to do.
And don’t get me wrong. I don’t want to fast forward to the end of summer.
There are still plenty of things I want to do with the kids.
But not today.
And not tomorrow.
I just want to be alone.
But for a little while at least.
At least an afternoon.
Does acknowledging that I’m sick of my children make me a shitty mom?
I don’t think so.
I think it just makes me an honest one.