Motherhood Has Made Me A Ticking Time Bomb

I want to explain.

I need you to hear me. So that when you see my glance dart towards you, anger pouring from my bloodshot eyes and my mouth snarling into a nasty scowl, you will fully understand why.

I want you to know that my bitchiness comes from somewhere—there is a reason. It is because I am strapped, 24/7, to a ticking time bomb.

Some will say how dramatic! And to you, I politely say, fuck you.

I have a seven-month-old. He is precious. He is the sun and the stars of my life. BUT. But this child has very specific needs. He would prefer to sleep on me. Not next to me, not within sight, but literally ON TOP OF ME. And, if possible, attached to my nipple. The nipple for this child is like air. And while we all want to nourish our children with wholesome breastmilk we, women collectively, would like a goddamn break.

Let’s just pretend for a second that you believe me when I say I’ve tried numerous ways around this constant nipple attachment and have just settled for giving up my life for the next couple of months. And let’s move on.

I walk around all day with this lovely suckling in my Ergo or on my hip. If we sit on the ground to play with toys, he likes to do so only if he can either a) be touching my leg or b) be on top of my leg, hitting me in the face and drooling his beautiful spit all over my clothing. In essence, I am very rarely alone with my own body. Imagine that—not having a minute to be alone with yourself. I sometimes daydream about laying on my stomach or picking my nose in privacy. Or pooping with no one watching. But those are fantasies, and I am a realistic woman.

But there are times when my most precious baby will let me set him down, snoozing deeply, and I can have a couple of minutes to hold my wine glass in peace. Or wash my face. Or just sit. By myself.

And I have spent a lot of time preparing for this—pausing like a statue in silence, not moving, to get him to this peaceful slumber that affords me some seclusion. I have taken every measure to breathe evenly, to turn my phone onto “silent” and to hold in a restless toot, lest it wakes him from his pleasant dreams.

And then you come in.

You come in, excited, or angry, or just as a free person. As a human with no care in the world. You are loud. You are reckless. And you always, always, wake my beautiful beast.

When you do so–when you stomp down the hallway, slamming doors and talking in any voice above a whisper—my eyes turn to tiny, red pinpoints. My hands clench into fists and my breath turns shallow and rabid.

In your carelessness, you have tripped the wire. You have stepped on the mine. You are standing on the bloody booby trap. All of the time that I have devoted myself to getting free of the time bomb, you have undone in a matter of seconds. And unfortunately, I am the only certified bomb technician in the house. I am the only mother fucker who can handle the potential fallout from the explosion that you have just set off.

So when you see me standing there in my underwear with a tinderbox strapped into my Ergo, and I look at you with a mix of disgust and jealousy as you wander around the house at your leisure, know that I am a soldier standing on ruins of the battlefield.

I undoubtedly have bodily excretions in my hair and I’ve completely lost my pants. I might be wearing a bra, but that’s a crapshoot. My face is set in a grimace because all day long I have been engaging in combat with a two-year-old, a four-year-old and a French Bulldog. I have fought in conflicts near and far; in grocery store lines and public parks. I have made peace deals between enemies and fed the troops meals meant for kings. I have cleaned, wiped, bathed and bandaged all that I have come into contact with.

Instead of looking at me like I might claw off your face and eat you as a snack, get this warrior a glass of wine and listen to my stories of carnage and devastation. And rub the tears, ahem, dirt from my worn feet. Look at me with pride and admiration, for I am fighting a war, every day.

And all this, with a time bomb strapped to my chest.