It was the best of times, it was the worst of times...

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. 

Charles Dickens certainly knew how to coin a phrase. I am stealing it, wholeheartedly. No credit for me. 

However I do not use it to compare London and Paris during the tumultuous time of the French Revolution. This evening, as I sit in my bed, laptop on my knee (thank you dearest hubby for repairing it for me. Much easier than trying to compose your blog on your smartphone!), having just done a quick top up early night feed and got baby back into bed, I am describing motherhood. 

I have two children. My darling daughter is now the grand age of three and my boy, my Little Man, is five months. I am a stay at home mum and, I will, most likely, continue to be so, until the Little Man goes to preschool at three. My two little munchkins make me laugh so hard and smile so widely. There are times when I truly feel like I might explode with love for them and I still can't fully believe that we created them and they grew inside me. However, this time of heart bursting joy is juxtaposed by this also being, by far, the most challenging and difficult period of my life. As Dickens so eloquently put it; the season of Light... the season of Darkness.

There are certain aspects of being a new parent that you expect, before your children come along: the broken sleep, the exhaustion, the nappies, the crying etc. These things are a given. I can handle those. I anticipated those. What I did not expect, after the birth of my second child (I've done this all before, it'll be like riding a bike) was to be categorically floored by anxiety and post natal depression. 

It comes in sudden waves; ambushing you from behind a particularly long day and burnt dinner. And it takes many guises: anger, no, insane rage, resentment, guilt, shame, incredible stress, feeling indifferent, anxiety, and lack of control. It's not necessarily about feeling that you aren't bonding with your baby; I couldn't adore my Little Man any more. It's about me and what's going on in my head. If anything, it's my relationship with my eldest that is suffering. 

I have written before about my need for control. It transpires that I really need to feel I am in control. As my Health Visitor put it, I have OCD tendencies. I need to keep my house clean, tidy and organised or it becomes a huge point of stress for me. I need to tick things of on my mental list. I crave structure and routine. (I'm finding these long summer holidays challenging.) I feel saturated by my emotions and then at the point of the merest sign of things going wrong, I overflow. Spectacularly. This isn't me. This is not the parent I want to be. So, after four long months of burying my head in the sand I am tackling it. Swallowing my pride. Being courageous. It's one of the hardest things I have done in a long, long time. I feel like I have failed. I am not coping very well. 

Yes, I can smile. Yes, I seem very much on top of things. My house is clean and tidy. My laundry is done, menus planned, groceries bought, dinner on the table each and every night. Come September, Little Crumpet goes to preschool and the Little Man is signed up for swimming and music classes. On the surface I seem to be parenting with ease. But I am a swan. Under the water, out of sight, I am paddling furiously, desperately keeping afloat, whilst trying to maintain the calm picture of serenity and togetherness to the big wide world. I certainly fooled my Health Visitor for a while.

A part of me knows that I am not the only one. But to talk about this is taboo. No one wants to admit they are struggling. That it is harder than they feel it should be. No one wants to confess that they feel out of control, a failure, a truly crap mother, or father, at times. Admitting this is hard. Humiliating. But I feel like this. I'm not the only one who feels like this. The associated guilt. I should be better at this. I try my hardest. Every single day. I am my own worst critic and my hardest is never good enough. I know I should cut myself some slack. But I can't and I don't think I ever will. I utterly adore my little munchkins. Only the very best of me is good enough for them. And so I strive for perfection. Every single day. They deserve it. They are amazing little people. It's a catch 22. I want to give them the best of me, but I feel that my best is never good enough.

So I take each day as it comes. I pray the good days are great and many, and that the times between my dark days grow ever longer. I will beat this. It will not consume me. 

This is written to each and every one of you out there who is secretly beating yourself up. You are not alone. This is our village. It takes a village to raise a child. Reach out. 

xx