only a mom just a mom

Dear Diary, It’s almost midnight, and the house finally sounds asleep — well, except for the hum of the dryer and the faint buzz of a night-light down the hall. I’m sitting on the couch surrounded by laundry that’s somehow both clean and wrinkled at the same time. My back hurts, my eyes sting, but it’s quiet… and I can breathe for a minute. Five kids. Three girls, two boys. Four of them live with me — all mine, all the time. The fifth, my oldest, is with his dad right now, helping while he recovers from an injury. I miss him every day, but I’m proud of him. He learned how to care for others because he watched me do it. People like to say I have “full custody.” That’s not even close. What I have is *soul custody*. It’s every heartbeat, every prayer, every ounce of energy poured into keeping this little world turning. I don’t share the load. I don’t get weekends off or alternate holidays. It’s me — always me. Sometimes I wonder what silence sounds like. I mean *real* silence — not the kind where you still hear dishes clinking, or someone calling “MOM” from another room. I haven’t gone to the bathroom alone in fifteen years. If I shut the door, someone’s knocking. If I lock it, they slide notes under the c***k. Showers come with questions through the curtain: “Mom, what’s for dinner?” “Mom, can I have your charger?” “Mom, can you open this?” It’s funny, in a tired kind of way. Being the only parent means I’m everything: the good cop, the bad cop, the chef, the nurse, the referee, the alarm clock, the bedtime story, and sometimes the villain in my own home. I say *no* more times a day than I can count — not because I want to, but because I have to. I’m the one who has to remind, “Homework first,” “Shower time,” “You can’t wear shorts in December.” They roll their eyes, slam doors, and still end up crawling into my lap when the world feels too big. And honestly? That’s the best part. Because even when I’m drowning in laundry and bills, I get the cuddles. I get the drawings that say *“Best Mom Ever.”* I get the whispered *“I love yous”* before bed. I get the good parts. The holy parts. The ones that make me forget how tired I am. --- **Day Two — Morning Rush** Dear Diary, Today started the way they all do — too early and too loud. The alarm didn’t go off because I forgot to plug in my phone. The ten-year-old couldn’t find her shoes. The seven-year-old poured orange juice into his cereal *again*. The middle one cried because someone “looked at her wrong.” Meanwhile, I’m standing in the kitchen, hair in a bun, holding cold coffee, wondering if I brushed my teeth or just dreamed I did. There are mornings I swear I’m living in a circus I didn’t sign up to run. By 7:30 a.m., I’d signed three permission slips, packed five lunches, broke up two arguments, lost a sock, and said “We’re late!” at least twelve times. I dropped them off with my usual mix of love and relief. Then the silence hit — that short window of peace before work starts. That’s when I breathe and think, *Okay. I can do this.* But by 9 a.m., my phone’s buzzing — the school nurse calling, someone forgot their inhaler. So I drive back, smile, deliver, and head to work like nothing happened. Sometimes I wonder how many miles I’ve driven just circling between school, work, home, and back again. Probably enough to reach heaven’s gates and back. At lunch, I sat in my car — my little sanctuary — and prayed. Not a fancy prayer. Just a tired whisper: > “Lord, give me strength for one more day. Remind me why You picked me for this.” And He did, right around 3:00 p.m., when I saw my seven-year-old’s face light up running toward me after school, waving a paper he’d colored just for me. It said: **“Mom, you’re my superhero.”** I cried the whole way home. --- **Day Three — The Bad Guy** Dear Diary, Today I was the bad guy. Again. The 14-year-old wanted to go to a friend’s house where I didn’t know the parents. I said no. Instant eye roll, door slam, silence. The 11-year-old said I was “mean” for making her clean her room before she could get on her tablet. The 10-year-old cried because I wouldn’t buy her something online. I’m always the “no.” The bad guy. The “you don’t understand.” But when they’re sick, it’s “Mommy.” When they’re scared, it’s “Mommy.” When the world feels wrong, it’s still *me.* Sometimes I look in the mirror and don’t even recognize the woman staring back. My hair’s a mess, eyes tired, wrinkles forming where laughter and worry meet. But under that — I see a woman who refuses to give up. I see love in human form. I see a fighter. I see God’s work in progress. I may mess up, forget, and fail daily, but I’m here. And they’re growing. They’re good. That has to count for something. --- **Day Four — Little Blessings** Dear Diary, The little one climbed into bed with me before sunrise. He whispered, “Mama, I just wanted to love you before school.” I swear moments like that heal everything. We lay there for a few minutes, quiet and warm. His tiny hand on my cheek. His breath soft and steady. That’s when I realized — this is it. This is what I prayed for years ago when I said, “God, give me a family.” He gave me more than I could handle — and somehow, the strength to handle it anyway. It’s not easy. It’s never easy. But it’s beautiful. Sometimes, when they’re all asleep, I stand in the hallway and look at their doors. Behind each one is a life I helped shape. A miracle I helped raise. A story that belongs partly to me. The world might never clap for moms like me. But Heaven does. --- **Day Five — Air** Dear Diary, Today, I found a rare moment of peace. I sat outside while they played, the air warm and kind, and I breathed. It hit me then — I spend so much time holding everything together that I forget to just *exist.* To feel the air. To notice the sunset. To thank God for getting me through another day. Air is nice. But love — love is better. Because when they run to me, arms open, faces full of joy, I realize this is my purpose. My calling. My chaos. My miracle. And no matter how tired I get, I’ll keep choosing it. Every. Single. Time?