Parents are really fucking tired.

We are exhausted.

We are burnt out.

We are overwhelmed.

We are confused.

We are overworked.

We are raging.

We are fed up.

We are being asked to do too much with too little help. We are being asked to do the impossible every day. We are being asked to do the right thing with no support.

Parents are resilient, yes.

Parents are tough, yes. 

Parents are strong, yes.

But surviving a global pandemic? That wasn’t in the parenting books.

I have spent more days this year than I would like to admit being angry that I am a mother. Being angry that I have to not only worry about myself, but the health and safety of three tiny humans. I have pondered if my mental health would be better or worse if I could spend my day laying in bed watching tv without having to take care of anyone but myself. 

I’ve been angry, sad and frustrated at having to say goodbye to our usual crutches and fun. That we’ve said goodbye to playdates, playgrounds and swimming pool escapes. I’m sad at how many hours my kids have spent watching television, just so I can have a moment to breath or work.

I am frustrated that my family is so close, yet have to stay far. That my kids have seen their Nana once, briefly, since March 2020 and that’s all. That I can’t even remember the last time they got to see their auntie and uncle. I’ve cried, regularly, about how long it’s been since I’ve hugged my grandpa. 

It’s not an easy thing to admit.

It’s not fun to wake up and be angry you are a parent. It’s not fun to feel inadequate to the tasks in front of you. It’s not fun to internally blame your kids for not allowing you to accomplish the work you want to. 

It’s tiresome, really. 

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