Tuesday Morning. Fiction by Eva-Maria Ehrhardt

Tuesday morning

It’s been one of these mornings. The best laid-out plans could not meet their goal. Instead of getting ready and going to the mother-child group where your child could play and interact with other children of the same age and where you, the mum, could meet up with other mums– talk to adults, feel less lonely, but instead feel inspired and connected, feel your social battery recharge, feel like someone is listening to you again; that what you say matters; you are seen as a woman, an adult as well as a mum – instead, the child that you love more than anything else in the world, that you carried through nausea, constipation, frequent urination, heartburn and other aches, that you birthed in a 27 hour process, which has left your partner and you with trauma, that has changed your body and mind forever; this child decides to fight the diaper change. Maybe your child just wants more play time or has not slept well. The full diaper smells and then eventually leaks, leaving three small puddles of pee in the flat – again something to clean, you feel; you know, you can neither clean it all nor catch up to the hills of laundry anyway. Shrug it off. So, you tried to get your child to cooperate by playing, explaining, yes, bargaining, too – knowing it is the wrong move – but also by reading books, listening to music, even dancing – but still no successful diaper change. No brushing of these tiny teeth. Your child is not dressed; no hair has been combed, yet. And the clock is ticking. Wow, already so late. Even if we changed the diaper now, we would have to undergo the bathroom routine and then we both must put on clothes…Too late.

Sighingly, you cancel your plans to see your mum friends, knowing it is the right decision. It respects your child’s slower pace this morning. By no means would you want to cross your child’s limits. Crying, resistance, struggle – no diaper change. Period.

You listen to and see your child. You try to. You love it so much. You want to be a good parent. But you are sad, disappointed and exhausted. You feel inadequate, insufficient – maybe even deficient. You wanted to be a mother so badly. Aren’t you failing, though? Other parents handle it better than you. They make it to the kids’ club on time and make it look easy. It is 10 o’clock on a Tuesday morning.

Earlier, you had even felt proud because you yourself got dressed very fast, organized and selected the toys to take to the kids’ club effortlessly while your child had been playing. Great, this way it won’t matter that we stayed in bed, under our blankets, a little too long; snuggled and held each other close, you had thought.

You had looked forward to seeing the others, your new social circle, the people who get you, make you feel okay – like you are not a complete failure. These people share your experiences. They are not those who say “well, didn’t you want to be a mother?”, “your choice”, “deal with it” or “what a luxury to stay at home 24/7” and “you’re home, so you have the time to keep the flat clean, do the laundry, buy food and raise your children properly. If only I could stay at home this long”. Thank you, parent police. You feel bad enough as it is. You want to do everything right, perfectly. You try to cook healthy food, be entertaining for your child, friends and your partner. You feel like you’re not doing enough even though you did not have an hour of uninterrupted time to yourself in days. The nights when you try to stay awake just to eat a bite in peace or move a little (you are eating all day, every day. Be careful, you will be huge if you keep that up)… The time when you should sleep doesn’t count. It shouldn’t count. Just the pure simple desire of time to yourself, hurts you. Guilt is eating you alive. It is as though you do not love your child enough or you’re not thankful enough for your family. Whenever you utter the words “I need a break, could you just look after her for an hour?” guilt acts like a silent and sneaky murderer stabbing you in the gut. Have you just asked to be away from your child? How could you? Embrace every moment with your child. Time flies. One day, she won’t need you anymore. Your body aches. You are tired from last night. You feel like the worst mother in the world.

You look at your child, sitting in its poo leaking diaper playing. Your kid is content. You leave the room. My child is safe, everything is fine. You put on some music. Why not put on children’s songs, would be better for your little one, you hear your thoughts challenge you yet again. You decide to ignore them, you need something to resettle you. Your needs matter, too.

Simultaneously, you feel ridiculous. So, you stay at home, this morning, no kids’ club. What’s the big deal? Get over yourself.

Shut up.

You’re still feeling overwhelmed, you detect feelings of sadness, disappointment and honestly, anger or rage over this morning’s events. It could have worked out so well. Kids’ club, then your little one would have been tired enough to nap earlier, so you would have had time to do the laundry before your partner returns after work. Didn’t work, though.

You bathe your child; everything will be fine. You manage to put on a new, clean diaper. Success. Too little, too late. You try to regulate your thoughts and feelings. You leave your kid out of your sight for just two minutes to tidy up a little, pick up a few toys. Your freshly bathed child has found your biro and has drawn circles, short and long lines on its tummy. Great mum, you’re a pro, aren’t you? You sigh.

You utter words you had sworn never to say – no bad words per se but passive aggressive stuff. Didn’t you want to only use nonviolent communication? Guilt.

You try to breathe to calm down. You repeat your inner mantra: It is okay, I do my best, nobody’s perfect. It will be fine. Breathe.

You breathe in and out. And again – in and out.

It does not help. You use a washing cloth to clean your kid’s stomach the best way possible. Some very stubborn, narrow, light blue lines remain. That’ll do for now. You pick some clothes.

Time to get your laundry done, there aren’t many trousers left. You are not working now, why is it not possible for you to stay on top of the housework? You feel your eyes become watery and your lip starts to tremble. Two tears are running down your warm face. Come on, you cannot cry in front of your child. You cannot fool children; they realize what is up and detect your emotions. Your behaviour today is unfair. Pull yourself together.

You get yourself a cup of herbal tea and some biscuits. You already had some coffee and since you’re still breastfeeding, you must not overdo it with the caffeine. Isn’t it about time to wean anyway? Your child will be in kindergarten soon. Kind of clingy. At least breakfast went well earlier. You both had some porridge made with oat milk and fruit. Great for the iron intake. Hopefully my child gets all its nutrients… Do we eat healthy enough?

You take a sip and a bite and breathe in. You glance through the door into the child’s room. Your child is still playing happily. No danger. So, no problem. Take these few minutes for yourself. Air fills your lungs; your breasts rise, and your body is blown up with air – like a balloon. Then the air leaves your body again, your breasts sink, and your body feels smaller. You start to relax and, finally, let go of your plans and your expectations, at least for now. You feel yourself calming down and your devilish thoughts take a short break.

You get on with your day and return to your child to read ten to twenty-five books and to play the same old games again, to tidy the flat three more times today, especially the eating area, with it still looking like an entire mess when your partner returns from work.

What will you answer him when he asks what you two have done today? Managed to change a diaper and get dressed in around about two hours?

But you’re calmer and the feeling of love is becoming the predominant emotion in your body again. Guilt is on pause but ready to jump in anytime. Tomorrow will be better.

You sigh but then smile at your child, who is looking up at you while hugging your leg.

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Eva-Maria Ehrhardt, a teacher and mother. She lives in Germany. Reading to her toddler and seeing her excitement, enhanced her appreciation of books leading her to start writing herself, which has become a passion.