Because some days, don’t we all want to? Due to the nature of the internet, I feel it is necessary to preface this post with the following disclaimer. I love my kids. Most days, I feel blessed beyond measure to have the privilege of raising such remarkable little people. However…there are days. Unbelievably challenging, never-ending afternoons of horror. Days that stretch me to the very breaking point. Today was such a loathsome 24-hours. I’d had enough. Beyond frustration. I’d taken a breather, and a short walk. Neither helped. There was nothing left to do…so I quit. My husband received the following resignation letter this afternoon.
Please take this letter as notice of my resignation. While I’ve enjoyed my position as mother the past 9 years, I feel that the time has come to turn the reins over to someone far more capable for the remaining years of parenthood. I’ve reached the end of my usefulness and I have nothing more to offer.
I somehow managed to survive the baby years. Spit up, diapers and tummy time were never my thing, but they weren’t too overwhelming…just extremely mind numbingly boring. Severely deficient of adult conversation, I made it mostly unscathed to toddler time. I spent the majority of the next few years in the bathroom, cajoling, pleading and bribing children into doing their business in the toilet rather than sitting in their own filth all the live long day. Potty training seems like it should be a much more easily acquired skill. Who wants to remain uncomfortable in a wet diaper? Apparently, miniature humans find it far preferable to be wiped and cleaned up after, than take care of their “issues” themselves.
Finally, I reached the golden age of parenthood. When my minions were old enough to feed and clothe themselves yet young enough to still worship me as the bringer of all good food, stories and pleasures in life. My cherubs were sufficiently intelligent that they provided hours of delightful conversation and observations on the world, but still innocent and pure of heart. I could spot a fib a mile away, and there was instant remorse at being apprehended in a wrongdoing. Our days were filled with crayons, tricycles, park days, tickles and snuggles. I was enveloped in the blissful joy of motherhood. Pride followed me everywhere in the form of two well-mannered, kind, and considerate, genius children. I had arrived.
Certain of my superior parenting skills, I forged ahead into the elementary years. Unaware of the impassable tangled jungle I was embarking on. Child rearing decisions became exponentially harder every year. I suddenly had competition in the decision-making process as well. I made the catastrophic error of teaching my children to think for themselves. And now, they had the nerve to trust their own instincts and opinions over mine. Stubbornness reared its ugly head. Arguments ensued. Defenses were raised and the battle lines drawn. No longer was this a joint venture, I felt constantly at war with these little humans to remain in charge of my own home.
I have recently come to the painful conclusion that this fight cannot be won. Time marches on and despite my best efforts, these infants I have nurtured and cared for unceasingly have turned the corner towards rendering my services obsolete. I no longer understand their decision-making process, nor it seems can I influence them enough to be worth the effort. Their emotional swings are beyond my comprehension. I am clearly ill-equipped to continue this journey of motherhood into the teenage years. They will devour me and leave nothing left but an empty shell of the confident woman I once was. I will weep alone in my rocking chair, yearning for the bygone days of a baby-soft head on my shoulder, nestling closer as I sang a lullaby. No, it is best for all involved if I bow out of the position now, before I truly lose my identity in the epic battlefront of adolescence.
I shall pack my yoga pants, sweatshirts and tennis shoes and be gone by week’s end. I wish you all the luck in the world over the years to come.
I find it incredibly cathartic to write out my feelings. After I’d banged out my resignation letter, I felt insanely free. Then a note caught my eye on the way out the door that forced me to reassess my position. It had been slipped onto the corner of my desk unnoticed while I’d been angrily venting my frustration into my keyboard.
Oh sweet motherhood. The fringe benefits of this job get me every time.