Tired mama

The mum I want to be

I don’t want to be the mum who is always busy.

I don’t want to be the mum whose children remember her with a laptop open, a phone in her hand, a washing basket on her hip, and a mind that was always somewhere else.

I want to be present.

Really present.

The kind of present that notices everything.

The stories that don’t seem important.

The new dance they’ve learned.

The wobbly tooth.

The way they still reach for my hand when they’re tired.

The little moments that don’t make social media, don’t get photographed, and don’t come around twice.

But somewhere between being a single mum, working full-time, running a home, carrying the mental load of an entire family, and trying desperately to keep all the plates spinning, I feel like I’m missing pieces of the life I’ve worked so hard to build.

And it breaks my heart.

Because when you’re a single parent, there is no one to pass things to.

No one to say, “Can you sort tea tonight?”

No one to share the school emails.

No one to pick up the pieces when you’re exhausted.

No one to carry half the worry.

Everything lands with you.

Every decision.

Every form.

Every appointment.

Every packed lunch.

Every bedtime.

Every worry at three o’clock in the morning.

Every bill.

Every broken heart.

Every responsibility.

And most days, I carry it because I have to.

Because that’s what mums do.

But some days, if I’m honest, I’m tired of being strong.

Tired of carrying the weight of everything and everyone.

Tired of feeling like I’m constantly running from one thing to the next without ever arriving.

I spend my days looking after children at work.

Helping them learn.

Helping them grow.

Making sure they feel valued and cared for.

Then I come home to my own children and feel the guilt creeping in because there’s still work to do. More planning. More preparation. More things that need me.

And every minute I spend doing those things feels like a minute stolen from the people I love most.

The hardest part is knowing how quickly this is all passing.

I can already see it.

The baby faces disappearing.

The growing independence.

The moments where they don’t need me quite so much anymore.

And while part of me is proud of the people they are becoming, another part of me wants to press pause.

Because I’m terrified that while I’ve been busy surviving, their childhood has been quietly slipping through my fingers.

People often tell single mums how strong they are.

But strength is overrated when all you really want is time.

Time to sit.

Time to listen.

Time to play.

Time to be.

Time to enjoy your children instead of constantly managing life around them.

I don’t care if the washing sits in the basket.

I don’t care if the house isn’t perfect.

I don’t care if every task isn’t ticked off.

What I care about is looking back one day and knowing that despite how hard it was, despite the exhaustion, despite carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders, my children knew they were loved.

Not through the meals I cooked.

Not through the bills I paid.

Not through the sacrifices I made in silence.

But through my presence.

Because one day the toys will be gone.

The bedtime stories will end.

The little hands won’t reach for mine anymore.

And when that day comes, I don’t want my biggest memory to be how hard I worked.

I want it to be how fiercely I loved them.

I want to remember the laughter.

The cuddles.

The conversations.

The ordinary moments that were never ordinary at all.

I’m tired of living on a hamster wheel.

Tired of feeling like life is one long list of jobs that never ends.

I don’t want to just survive these years.

I want to live them.

Because my children only get one childhood.

And I only get one chance to be their mum.