THE NAME I FORGOT

Every minute.
Every second.
Every hour.

From morning to night that’s all that’s said.
That’s all that’s heard.

Momma.
Momma.
Momma.

And when I hear my actual name
I almost stop breathing for a second.

Who is that?

Because I haven’t heard my name in so long
that it feels like it belongs to someone else.

It’s crazy how motherhood can consume you.
Not slowly.
Not gently.

But like a deep dive into water
where you keep sinking
and sinking
and by the time you realize how far down you went
you’re already holding your breath.

Sometimes I feel like I’m failing
in every direction my life exists in.

Motherhood.
Being a wife.
Being myself.

I feel like crying most of the time
but there’s never really space for that.

My moods change every minute.
I’m overwhelmed.
Overstimulated.

And no one notices.

No one sees it.
No one asks how I’m doing.

Not really.

And the crazy part is
even if someone did ask
I’d probably still say the same thing I always do.

“I’m fine.”
“I’m okay.”

Ask me again
and I’ll say it again.

Because no one really listens long enough
for the real answer.

Even when I try to start the conversation
it gets interrupted.
Forgotten.
Or compared to someone else’s struggle.

So eventually
I just swallow it.

Brush it off.
Carry it quietly.

People love to say being a stay-at-home mom is the best thing.

“You’re home all day.”
“You’ve got all the time in the world.”
“You’ve got time for yourself.”

But in reality
I really don’t.

And every time I try to explain that
someone cuts me off with the same sentence.

But you’re home.

So let’s really look at what that means.

I wake up before the girls
and maybe I get an hour before they wake up.

But that hour isn’t mine.

I’m feeding animals.
Tending to plants.
Checking the greenhouse.
Watering life that depends on me.

And by the time I’m done with all that
the girls are awake.

Now it’s breakfast.

While I’m making breakfast
I’m being bombarded with hugs
kisses
fights
crying
screaming
tiny hands pulling on my clothes
voices saying

momma
momma
momma

“I want this.”
“I want that.”

And this is just while making breakfast.

While they eat
I’m cleaning the mess I made
checking off the things I already did outside
looking around the house
searching for the next thing that needs to be cleaned.

The moment I start cleaning
they follow.

“Moma.”
“Moma.”
“Moma.”

If I ignore them for even a minute
they’ll climb something
open something
spill something
touch something they shouldn’t.

So now I’m cleaning
while watching them
while answering them
while repeating the word no over and over again.

But the word no doesn’t really exist to toddlers.

You can say it a thousand times.

They don’t care.

Not because they’re bad
but because they’re curious
because the world is new
because everything is an adventure.

And I’m just trying to survive the day.

Using the bathroom is almost impossible.

I sit down
and they’re right there.

“I gotta potty.”
“I want food.”
“I want this.”

Or they’re fighting.
Or crying.
Or just making excuses to stand there with me.

Now imagine that
for the entire day.

Every chore.
Every task.
Every little thing you try to finish.

Add two toddlers
who love you so much
they refuse to let you exist alone for even five minutes.

Showers?

Even with the door closed
they swing it wide open.

“Momma hi.”
“I want this.”
“I want that.”

Another excuse
to be close to me.

Eating barely exists in my world.

If I manage to drink a cup of coffee during the day
that feels like a miracle.

And by the time the house finally goes quiet
I’m too tired to exist as anything but exhausted.

Too tired to care for myself.

Too tired to remember the version of me
that existed before all the momma’s.

Sometimes I get ready anyway.
I take the time.
I try to feel like myself again.

But it takes so much energy
so much effort
just to get there.

And when I do

there’s silence.

No acknowledgment.
No notice.

My confidence collapses quietly.

I’m depressed.

But no one sees it
because I hide it well.

Behind smiles.
Behind “I’m good.”
Behind “I’m okay.”

But even that doesn’t matter
because no one really sits long enough
to hear me.

So I write.

I started my blog
because writing is the only place
my voice doesn’t get interrupted.

The only place
my thoughts get to finish a sentence.

But even now
I’m not sure what I’m feeling.

I just know I’m tired.

Mentally.
Emotionally.

I need time to myself
and I don’t have it.

I want to leave the house sometimes
just to breathe a different kind of air
but most days
I can’t.

So I sit here
trying not to lose my mind
trying to breathe through the constant chorus of

momma
momma
momma

trying to quiet my own thoughts
but they keep coming back.

People say
“be happy.”
“be grateful.”
“stop being weak.”

But this isn’t weakness.

Depression is real.
It doesn’t always look dramatic.

Sometimes it looks like a woman
standing in a kitchen
holding a cold cup of coffee
while two tiny voices call her name
for the thousandth time that day.

Sometimes it looks like a woman
who can’t even remember
the sound of her own name anymore.

And somewhere under all the noise
under all the responsibility
under all the love

there’s still a person

trying to breathe

trying to remember

who she used to be.

This isn’t a complaint.
This isn’t regret.

This is just honesty.

Motherhood can be beautiful and suffocating
at the exact same time.

Loving your children with every part of you
doesn’t mean you stop needing space to exist.

It doesn’t mean you stop needing to be heard.

So if you’re another mother somewhere
reading this while the house is loud
or while the house is finally quiet
and you’re sitting there exhausted…

I hope you know you’re not weak.

You’re human.

And somewhere underneath all the momma’s,
there’s still a woman learning
how to find her way back to herself.

With Love, 

Mommy-In-Bloom