I expected a lot difficult things in advance of getting divorced at age 28, as the mother of two small children. I expected my 5-year-old would have an adjustment period acclimating to life in two separate households, and I predicted lonely nights and holidays when my children were with their father, awkward looks from people unsure what to say, and well-meaning friends who could only offer platitudes instead of tangible support. I expected difficulty socializing in a Jewish community where my contemporaries have either just bought their first home with their spouse or are living the swinging single life on the Upper West Side; I don’t fall neatly into either category. I didn’t think that my mothering—even with a new set of overwhelming responsibilities and the absence of an in-house partner in parenting—would take a hit.
If I wasn’t a wonderful wife, or always the best daughter or friend, one role I was proud of was being a mother. I’d looked forward to having children all my life, and in the throes of a serious case of anorexia during my teenage years, it was often those glimmers of potential children that compelled me to emerge from a rocky adolescence intact.
When I gave birth to my son at age 23, I sailed through first-time parenting’s learning curve fairly easily and threw myself into motherhood. I fell in love with everything: the nighttime feedings and milk-induced snuggles, the wondrous thrill at the first smile, words and steps. And when my daughter came along three years later, it was easy to focus on her and adapting to life as a mother of two, especially when my marriage was flailing. I was present and engaged; rarely, if ever, did I raise my voice in anger toward my children. Being a good, conscientious mom was always “my thing.”
Fast forward to a few months post-divorce, though, and it’s an entirely different picture. Not because I serve heat-and-eat chicken nuggets more than I ever did, or coordinate perfect weekend activities less than I ever did–these things do not a good mother make. Rather, it’s my inability to be the kind of present parent I once was in the face of my exhaustion in my new reality. If I used to experience the usual ever-present fatigue of a mother of young children with a full-time job, it’s nothing compared to the crushing state of sheer exhaustion in which I find myself now.
Read the full article at the Washington Post.
The words of this author reflect his/her own opinions and do not necessarily represent the official position of the Orthodox Union.