Medically Induced Comas & Other Things Moms Think About While Sick

At Girls Rock! Weekend in early April, I led the adult workshop. We did an activity called "Linking Arms" that is supposed to demonstrate how adult women typically lose that connection to their own wants and voice. The premise is you introduce yourself and then turn to the person next to you (it's usually all women) and say something you really like. For example, "I like red shoes," "I like X Men movies," or "I like books with female protagonists." If the person next to you really likes red shoes, too, then you link arms. If she doesn't really like it, she's supposed to say no and you keep naming things until you find something in common. It's a fun ice breaker that even physically brings people closer.

I'd done about 40 minutes of workshop (talking about intergenerational partnerships and how to be aware of your own stuff when working with youth) already and I kicked off the activity. So, by the time it got back to me, everyone else had gone. I was the last person with an unlinked arm. The woman next to me said, "I LOVE being a mom." I did not immediately offer my arm. Instead, I paused. A long (maybe only three seconds, but it felt longer) pause. Too long. Before realizing I wasn't in my car by myself or writing in a journal. I was in a public circle of women who'd just been listening to me talk about how great it is to work with girls. I tried to snap out of it and joke "Depending on the day, right? Haha" and a few others laughed, but it mostly felt awkward. I finished the workshop, the day ended and I kept thinking about that.

The truth is, I don't love being a mom. I love my kids. That feels like a big distinction to me.

Lately, Henry's been saying, "I don't like these new shoes, Mom. (dramatic pause) I love them!" or " I don't like you, Mom. I love you!"

Most of the time I say, "I like you and I love you, Henry."

But that's not always true. Especially after being home with two sick boys (and then a sick me) for a week. When my parents recently went to San Francisco, I had cleared some days on my schedule to stay home with them and be a fun parent. The morning they left, Henry came down with a fever and chills. Like the solid mom that I am, I sent him to school anyway. And then the universe punished me. He went from fever and chills to stomach bug. And then Sullivan followed. And then I did. So it was a week with a two-kid doctor visit, multiple accidents, multiple loads of laundry, HOURS of Miles from Tomorrow Land and Curious George, and, of course, being sick.

Plus, they decided when one cries the other one cries (they did this with laughing first and it was adorable - crying, not so much). So there was one moment of Henry crying for a legitimate reason and Sullivan running over, encircling his tiny arms around my leg, stomping his feet and screaming.

I hated the world. I didn't eat for a couple days, but I kept feasting on anger and resentment. Had I the energy to Google, I would have researched medically induced comas. Moms aren't at the top of the appreciation totem pole on a good day, but during sickness it feels like an overweight death comes and rides on your back while whispering "you'll never get better and they don't care." in your ear.

Motherhood is not this thing I've always wanted. I don't know that there's one thing I've always wanted. But here I am, and here they are and I would bite off someone's face to protect them. Literally, the only scenario where I can even fathom shooting a gun is if someone was harming my kids. That doesn't mean I don't sometimes want to feed them to wolves.

It feels like there is a weird expectation for all mothers to love motherhood. To relish every little thing. You're allowed to admit those little rascals can sometimes drive you nuts, but that's that about the extent of the language. It's awkward to say, in a circle full of women, I don't love being a mother, but I do love my kids. And some days they feel way worse than rascals. And some days it feels way worse than nuts. But others there's the warm feeling that spreads over you (similar to when one of those rascals pees on your lap) when they say, "I don't like you, Momma, I love you."