When every morning is another nightmare

There's just something about the rigors of motherhood that can turn a perfectly good morning person into a morning monster.  

 

I recall loving mornings in my teenage and college years even. I loved eating breakfast, getting ready for the day, choosing my outfit, putting makeup on, and walking to class in the crisp dew that the best mornings bring. 

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And, if there was a hazelnut latte to be had on my trek to Psychology 401, then it made my Snow White-morning-loving-self all the more sing-songy.

 

Enter stage right: Motherhood.  

 

Enter stage left: Hormones (tidal-wave style). 

 

Picture me. Centerstage. A great collision. The "dead meat" in this sandwich. 

 

As motherhood became more involved, more complicated, more everything, I began to dread every time my eyes opened to the sound of pre-dawn screeches and squeals.  

 

Now, it's like a cruel joke. Sleep is the only way I can escape from my anxious/depressed/overwhelmed mind. Precious sleep. I literally get in bed every night at 7:30. And, if the insomnia stays away, it won't be long until I'm temporarily free from the battle in my mind. 

 

It's nice because I don't really dream much anymore. I just swim in my own unconsciousness. And then. Morning. 

 

It's like a cruel jolt back to reality. No, it's not that I dread another day of mothering, per se. What I dread is the instantaneous feeling that a massive African elephant is sitting on my chest at first wake.  

 

What I dread is the flood of negative emotions that smack me in the face soon after I realize "this is not a dream, this is reality. Your recurring nightmare." 

 

What I dread is the making of breakfast and the constant demands that go with it. The "I'm thirsty's" and "can I have?'s".

 

If you find yourself feeling the way I do, I'm afraid I have no real advice to offer you, except for the fact that I understand.  

 

I'm not sure if I'll ever be a morning person again. In fact, I'd be okay if I never frolicked to the kitchen ever again. But, what I do want is to not feel like reality is my enemy. I want the elephant to go back to Africa and I want my tears to stay inside until something legitimate draws them out again.  

 

I'd love to reach the point where my joyful children's glee for sunrise doesn't feel like creepy crawlies skittering over my body. I'd love to meet their zest with a smile and a hearty "good morning"!  

More than anything, I wish that.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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