Brave in The C Word

I’ve heard so many times lately that I’m so brave. That the fact I get up and out is brave.

Having a 3 year old will do that to you. You don’t have the choice to just lie in bed when you’ve got a toddler poking you in the face demanding to get dressed, and snacks, and to go to the park.

However, what these people don’t see is the tears. In the car, in the shower, at the sink when I’m washing the dishes. They don’t see me do the nursery drop off then spend the next six hours in bed until it’s time to do the pick up.

Grief is exhausting. Putting on a brave face constantly is absolutely exhausting.

Parenting through the loss of a parent is bloody exhausting. The one person who it felt like had all the answers, isn’t there any more. I’ll never understand how someone can be there one day and just….. not….. the next.

Being a single parent means you don’t get to pass, you don’t get to be tired or impatient or struggle. You have to get up and show up and deal with the crap that comes with being a toddler mum. The tantrums and the meal refusal and the pulling everything out the wardrobe and eventually not wanting to wear any of it. All the things I’d dearly love to just hand over to someone else, just for a short while. I love V with a fierceness but parenting her right now is taking everything I’ve got, and some days it feels like strength I don’t have.

I’m not brave. I just have an excellent brave face.