nothing's wrong

I read the words "Nothing's wrong. It's just hard." on a Facebook post by Bunmi Laditan, whom I don't know, shared by my friend Julie, whom I do. And I want to write my "Nothing's wrong. It's just hard."

Nothing's wrong. It's just hard. "I never thought all the stupid things I did as a young person would help me as a parent," I think as I muster the courage to be outspoken for the millionth time with any one of my children at any point in time. These millions of times happen when I least expect them so often that I expect them while I'm in the car, walking down the street, shouting over the vacuum cleaner, or lying in bed wishing I could sleep uninterrupted. To be thankful you can function on three hours of sleep every day for a week is not normal but a gift nonetheless. Nothing's wrong. It's just hard. 

My youngest, with his still innocent eyes, looks at me in horror when I speak unkindly on a day when I have no more left to give, accusing me and telling me, "You're my mom. You're supposed to be kind to me." I know he's correct. I know I should always be kind, but I can't always get over all of the pressures and off-the-cuff decisions that are in my face without a moment's notice. I look at him and offer a hug and an apology and my broken heart, hoping I am not the one who snuffs out his innocence on accident. Nothing's wrong. It's just hard.

My oldest two are really my middle two, but they are so similar in so many ways that I put them together, hoping that I'm not pushing aside my oldest. My oldest has a special place forever for making me a mother and because she has severe autism. Not the type that makes her simply quirky but the type that makes her never fit to live on her own or know how to drive or swim or even wash her own hair. All of that said, the neurotypical children need so much more right now. They have places to be and things that only I can teach them to get them on their way. So I carve out time for my sweet girl whenever I can, knowing she will be with me, hoping she will be with me, when they are all grown and gone. I cry sometimes because I can't help everyone when they need me. Nothing's wrong. It's just hard. 

I look around my home and see all that I want to do, all that I can do, and all that I cannot do. There is an enormous difference between what I want to do and what is possible, and it drags me down sometimes. I see my limitations—all of them. I see the time ticking on the clock and the calendar days flying past us, and I tell myself to do one thing. Just do one thing each day when it's all too much. Just keep on trying. Nothing's wrong. It's just hard. 

Gaining weight because emotional eating is a thing, and a messy house in utter disarray is proof that life is happening. Everyone is still alive and making their way slowly but surely. I wonder if my mental health days of watching movies and doing nothing are actually productive or if it's an early onset stage of giving up. What does giving up even look like? I'd have to research it and find the best way to give up if that were something I could do. And I don't think that's the answer. I look around me and see all the problems and conundrums and loneliness, and I realize that life is just this way, and it's okay. Nothing's wrong. It's just hard.