A Christmas tear

Today, I sat in therapy, curled into what felt like a plastic, empty ball, and cried. This year has left me somewhat defeated and deflated and today's 'break up day' has me anxious about the time and space in the holiday ahead. We're off to Stellenbosch tomorrow for a few days, and then we drive down to Knysna, where I'm hoping to read (a book and not an RFP document), drink (wine and not 9 espressos), spend time with my children (and not in a moving vehicle) and sleep (just sleep).

In the past 12 months:
- my mom got married
- a loved one started drug rehab
- I fired my maid, on whom I relied so heavily with my kids (but when somebody whacks your child on the head and tells your child to lie to you about it, it's a deal-breaker)
- I fired my PA (after months of mess)
- I built offices
- I expanded my business and hired 3 people
- I took on more work than I ever have before
- I welcomed my best best friend back to South Africa, and then bid her a very tearful farewell less than a year later
- I experienced more health issues and ingested more morphine than in the 33 years prior combined
- I didn't exercise, doctor's orders

At the same time, my husband took over his family's business, travelled more than he ever has and ran a university for 300 entrepreneurs from all over the world.

I know my life is blessed in many ways, but this year has kicked my ass. And then some.

So when in therapy today, I told my therapist that I was trying to be forgiving of myself for not being 'Mom of the Year' in the last few months, my therapist's response was jarring:

"Ben (my youngest, who is almost 2 and a challenge) won't get easier. These issues won't go away. They'll just be bigger issues in a bigger body."

And his issues, apparently, are inversely proportional to the amount of time I spend with him.

I've tried. Fuck but I've tried. There are days when I am up working until midnight, making school lunch in the wee small hours and trying desperately, in a jam-packed day, riddled with exhaustion, to fit in a puzzle, a quick walk with the pram and a story. And sometimes I don't get to do much more than bath my boys and read them a story and cuddle them.

And that's not good enough.

The tough thing now is that I am no longer a one-woman show. I have staff and salaries to pay and overheads. I have responsibilities and risks and I've given up the luxury of being able to wind up and wind down whenever I choose to.

This 'have it all' thing is bollocks. You can't, unless your standards are rock bottom or you're a bloke. If you're a woman and you're remotely Type A, you're stuffed. You're destined to be anxious, judged and guilt-ridden while you try your damndest to fill 11 roles and cum laude each and every one of them.

I'm going to use this holiday to reflect on what 'working motherhood' should look like for me. I might not ever get to that ideal, balanced place, but at least I'll have a vision to guide me.

Peace.