“Mom?”
Even now, as I sat staring at the notebook, I heard it from upstairs.
I closed my eyes.
For one selfish second, I considered pretending I had not heard.
Then came another, softer call.
“Mom?”
I went upstairs.
One child was sitting up in bed, hair stuck to one cheek.
“What?” I whispered.
“I can’t sleep.”
Of course.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
“Why?”
A shrug.
“Just can’t.”
Five minutes passed.
Then ten.
I rubbed a small back in the dark and felt the old irritation rise alongside affection, which is another thing nobody explains properly before children: two opposite emotions can live in the same body without canceling each other out.
I loved this child.
I also desperately wanted to be downstairs alone.
Both things were true.
Eventually the breathing beside me slowed.
I stood carefully and returned to the kitchen.
The notebook was still open.
Before you call yourself a failure…
I almost laughed.
Apparently the universe had decided to underline the point.
I turned the page.
There were older notes scattered there, not polished reflections, just fragments.
Too tired is not the same as incapable.
Rest is not a reward for finishing everything.
Everything is never finished.
And lower on the page:
I keep trying to create the energy first instead of protecting what little remains.
That one hurt.
Because I knew exactly what I had been doing.
I kept building imaginary versions of myself who would somehow perform motherhood exactly as I was doing it and then, through discipline alone, produce another full adult life after the children went to bed.
That imaginary woman would exercise five days a week.
She would read difficult books.
She would have a creative project.
She would maintain friendships thoughtfully.
She would meditate.
She would keep a clean house without caring too much about the clean house.
She would cook healthy food.
She would be emotionally regulated during every tantrum.
She would not scroll mindlessly.
She would have hobbies.
She would remember birthdays.
She would understand current events.
She would probably own matching storage containers.
And when I failed to become her, I called myself lazy.
That night, for the first time, I considered the possibility that the imaginary woman was the unreasonable one.
Not me.
I did not suddenly feel inspired.
That would have been a lie.
I did not make tea, open the neglected book, and read fifty pages while peaceful music played.
