These are the nights I don’t tell you about.
These are the nights that I think maybe, for real, we’re not going to make it. That maybe there was a reason we didn’t get pregnant, and that reason was my total unfitness to be a mother.
These are the nights when I know for sure that this job, these children, should have gone to someone else. Someone better, and kinder, who never cusses inside her head as she’s staring down the little darlings she fought so hard to parent.
These are the nights when I crawl into bed and try to cry extra quiet because I don’t feel like talking about my failures anymore. When I hunker down knowing that this time, a good night of sleep isn’t going to fix it.
These are the nights when I make apologies and listen to them and still, I need a shower to rinse away the bitterness clinging to my skin.
These are the nights when I know everyone in this house would be better off if I just … evaporated. Not death, no funeral, no grieving, just … poof. And all the conflict would be gone.
These are the nights when I wonder just how badly I’m damaging their hearts.
These are, I am convinced, the nights that come to us all, and they are dark and they are long and they were not invited to this party.
And one of the only things pulling me through these nights is this: Not all of the nights are these nights.