I remember reading in the Dr. Sears Baby Book that the period from twelve to eighteen months was the most exhausting for mothers. I didn’t quite believe him. But I’d now like to curl up at Dr Sears’ feet, sob, and ask him to move in with me.

The past two weeks have pushed me to what I now know is my threshold as a mother. I thought I had bumped up against it before, but no. Not really. Now, I have had two experiences that have very clearly reached beyond my limits.

The first experience was a day last week, after much whining and too much nursing and not enough sleeping, when I continually thought to myself throughout the day: I just don’t feel like being a mother today. I have no idea if that fact is alarming or totally expected, but I’ve never felt the desire to check out for a day so it felt new….and not so great.

The second experience was last night, after a long string of difficult bedtimes, difficult nights, and difficult mornings (that have had me up for the day between four and five a.m.). As Emerson began to make it clear that it was going to be hours before she closed her eyes for the night (yet again), I was filled with an intense level of frustration. I was fuming. I wanted to be so very far away as I felt the cumulative effect of 16-months of nursing, patting a tiny back until my hand goes numb, bouncing, rocking, singing…in my bedroom, in her bedroom, in the baby carrier. I felt exhausted and emotionally depleted and desperately wanted….no, needed…to be alone without anyone touching me or asking me for anything…or even talking to me, for that matter.

I felt angry and afraid that I was angry.

But, I am a mother. And mothers get angry. And feel pushed. And overwhelmed. And say things they wish they didn’t to their beautiful, amazing children that they really do love. Sometimes we have nothing left to give.

***

During the three hours that I was pushing during labor with Emerson, I found myself reaching a raw point when I could no longer access any sort of zen. All the positive, empowering words I had been reciting out loud, and in my head, for forty-eight hours disappeared. The meditative visualizations of lakes at sunset and mountains covered in trees vanished. All I could do was repeat these words to myself, over and over: get the fuck out of me. It was a beautiful birth, but I will never forget that little bit of ugliness that took place in the midst of it. Just as I will always look back on the first years of my first born’s life as the golden years…a time of great magic….the best ever….while knowing that on many a night all I could hear in my head, on repeat, was: go the fuck to sleep.

I know I can’t un-marry parenthood from its challenges. I know that I cannot be the only mother to not ever feel angry with her child. But man, I wish I could.

Instead, here I am, pushed to the brink. I have been giving, and giving, and giving for sixteen months, two weeks, and one day. And it’s wonderful, satisfying, gives my life meaning, and makes me feel totally grateful. But, it’s also frustrating, limiting, emotionally exhausting, and sometimes leaves me feeling resentful. It’s not pretty, but that’s the whole truth.

So, here’s to you (glass raised), all you beautiful mother warriors out there taking deep breaths, yelling into pillows if need be, and trucking on! You’re doing a great job!