>Soldier of War

Why do I feel sometimes more like a soldier on a 21-year tour of duty than a parent?

My little ones test my physical limits, not to mention my patience. They’re hungry. They’re thirsty. They’re bored. They’re cranky. They’re needy. They’re silly. They’re weepy. They’re hyper. They’re angry. All day long and often, well into the night.

My older girls are held hostage by hormones, swinging from delirious happiness to paralyzing sadness. One hour, they’re telling me all their deepest secrets. The next, I’m lucky to get one word out of them, and an annoyed glare if I keep asking my obviously obnoxious questions. Dustin Hoffman was right when he said that no matter how great of a parent you try to be, your teens wil find something wrong with you. They just might have to look a little harder. I can’t even work up a good righteous indignation over how I’m being treated, because I take in the accusations and the glares and the contempt and remember doing the very same thing to my own parents from time to time. More vexing, I remember being absolutely convinced at the time that I was right. Karma’s a bitch, isn’t it?

“Older and younger children really are equally difficult,” I said to Hubs last night. “When they’re little, they’re physically exhausting. When they get older, they’re emotionally exhausting.” And being physically and emotionally exhausted all at once? Well, it’s not good. It makes everything, how shall I put this? Hard as hell.

I’m starting to understand that feeling that other moms talk about, that life is passing them by while they spend all their time chasing after kids, wiping noses, and changing diapers. It’s hard right now to turn down free “mommy getaway” vacations and watch my friends jet off to New York to meet Katie Couric (just got an e-mail a few minutes ago from a friend with that news. I’m so happy for her, but also just a wee bit envious), while I clip coupons and check my son’s mouth for the zillionth time to make sure he hasn’t put anything in it that shouldn’t be there. I feel like it should be my season, because I’m coming into my own as a woman and a writer and I want to reap the benefits of it all, but it isn’t. It isn’t my season. It’s my kids‘ season. They are the only stars of this show right now, at least until my youngest starts school. And I try to make peace with this knowledge every single day.

My time will come. Just not right now. And it’s a struggle to be okay with that. I’d imagine the same is true for many of you.

This post originally appeared on Parents.com.