Mommy Burnout

I am burnt out. I can barely butter my toast or make coffee. If I do make coffee, I forget about it by the time it’s brewed. I think my appliances are feeling the same way. Right now my washer, oven and blender are all broken. Thank God, the wine fridge is still working.
The girls and I gathered recently for some Chardonnay and adult conversation.
“I have mommy burnout,” I whined.
“You do not,” retorted Lisa. “You have wife burnout.” I don’t know why but that caused us to laugh hysterically. I guess when you’re burnt-out you have a heightened sense of humor.
“Being a mom is not exhausting, it’s the things you have to do around it that wear you down,” Lisa explained, “The constant picking up. I feel like I spend most of my day bent over.” I wasn’t sure if I agreed with her because I find my kids’ fighting draining, but I nodded my head in full agreement, too tired to disagree.
“And the laundry,” I added. Whenever Lisa and I get together, we spend at least ten minutes groaning over the laundry. Men discuss sport scores; we discuss dirty clothes. We always end the conversation the same way: ‘When will it end?’ we ask each other and then ritualistically shake our heads in silence not wanting to utter the word ‘never.’
I thought I was just exhausted from the holidays until I read an article on burnout in New York magazine (12/4/2006). The article was written for stressed out New Yorkers, but it sure sounded familiar. Various experts defined burnout as a ‘mismatch between effort and recovery’ and noted that due to our ability to multitask, our ‘leisure time isn’t restorative.’ That’s why I like going to the movies. I can’t fold laundry, answer e-mails or wipe dirty bottoms.
I shared my insights with the girls. They both looked a bit stunned as I re-introduced the old-fashioned concept of leisure time—feet on the ottoman, cocktail in hand.
“I would like to relax, but I can’t take the whining and fighting.” I finally shared. “I try to control it, but sometimes nothing works.”
“That’s when I lock myself in the bathroom. I go into a time-out.” I stared at Lisa in complete awe as if she had just re-written Einstein’s equation. I had heard that strategy before, but this time I got it. “That is downright brilliant. What do your kids do while you are locked in the bathroom?”
“They cry or whine a bit more. I ask them if they are done and if they say yes, I come out. It works—you should try it.”
I looked over at Annie who wasn’t saying much. I assumed she was feeling relieved that she went back to work full-time and wasn’t driveling on like Lisa and I were.
“I need to get you two together with some friends of mine at work.” Annie piped up, “You are the only ones who complain about being a mom. Everyone is trying so hard to be perfect and politically correct, they just suffer in silence.”
Lisa and I beamed, happy to be praised for behavior that our husbands would consider whiny and ungrateful. We finished our wine and laughed at things that probably weren’t funny, but we didn’t care.
I’m feeling better on the burnout scale. I’ve had a quiet afternoon filled with pockets of restorative leisure time. There aren’t too many distractions inside the bathroom-just the occasional locking and unlocking of the door.