Twenty-One Days

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.

Yeah.

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.

At least.

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.

Not forever.

But for a little while at least.

A day?

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.

 

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