I’m here to admit something that probably won’t make me mom of the year and, truth be told, it might even turn some individuals off. But I don’t care. Any other day I might care, might. But today? I don’t care. Why? Because today I don’t have the mental capacity to get past the toys lying on the floor, the dishes sitting in the sink and the laundry piled up on the chair in our room and at the foot of our bed and on the floor in front of the washer.

I know, I know; last week I wrote this really cute thing about how it won’t be like this forever and I was all sentimental and whatnot, but today? Today I’d rather set the toys strewn across the floors of our home on fire before I pick them up for the 400th time this year. I don’t have the emotional stability to “suck it up” or “just get it done”. I don’t have the patience to listen to the better half of my brain when it tells me it’s okay and it will be fine. Because today my more human side is running the show, simultaneously setting things on fire while sobbing into a pillow. Today I’d rather lay in bed and buckle under the depressing truth that some days I am so over this life of cleaning up other people’s messes and putting everyone else’s happiness ahead of mine and being patient with everyone else’s intolerances.

Today is one of those days that I actually do wish I could turn back time — if only for a day — to feel the complete mental freedom of life before kids: To experience that peaceful state of mind that one can only experience when you don’t know what it’s like to love someone more than yourself, when you don’t know what it’s like to have people’s survival depending solely on your ability and desire to wipe their ass and feed them, to wash their clothes and their bodies, to love them, to bite your tongue, to protect their feelings and to keep them safe. That time in life when it made me happy to give my time, my patience and my shoulder to the people I loved, when what I had to give felt abundant. When I had the freedom to spend days “centering” myself, evaluating my needs and dreaming about the possibilities of the future. If I wanted to spend an entire day sobbing into my pillow, I only had myself to answer to. And if I only had spinach, greek yogurt and a bottle of whiskey in my fridge for weeks at a time, no one was at risk of dying.

Today, I miss those days. I miss living amongst my own private mess, not tripping on random toys and eating my meals sitting down, in a quiet room where no one was around to ask me what I was eating and if they can have one more bite.

363 days out of the year I could write about the flip side of motherhood, the infallible beauty in the mess, the endless rewards wrapped up in the exhaustion and the infinite amount of love – but not today.

Today, I’m over it.