I have ummed and ahhed about whether to share this because I’m conscious that you only get the snippets of my life that I show you. Which means that if I share too many joyful moments I might come across as having it totally together, and if I share too much of my overwhelm I might come across as totally mad. The truth, of course, is that with three kids in tow I am somewhere in between, and at any given moment you could find me teetering on the edge of insanity or flying on the blissful wings of childhood laughter. Most days I swing between the two, but just about always, overarchingly, I am happy and so very grateful.

Today, though. Today.

Today I just about lost my mother loving marbles. And I can’t tell whether the vibe I’ve been giving out lately has portrayed me as mad, glad or just an exhausted mess! But this is the time I am in and I try to share fairly openly because this blog is not written to be a highlight reel, but rather to highlight the real (see what I did there, haha #twit).

Today, I might have described myself as not coping. Except I don’t, because I think we need to redefine what coping is.

If coping means having a shiny house and washed hair then yes I am not coping. My house is so inadvertently booby-trapped with toys and remnants of ninja warrior courses that I think even Kevin McCallister would be impressed. It’s not even the toys, it’s the stuff, THE STUFF. And as for my hair, well my hair can’t work out if it should belong to a pubescent boy, or Rod Fyffe, the ex-mayor of Bendigo (google him, it’ll be worth it).

If coping means you always calmly respond to your child’s request for their 71st snack of the day then yes I am not coping. Because I swear to all that is holy one of my kids asked for something to eat EVERY TEN MINUTES today. He asked for something to eat WHILE HE WAS EATING.

If coping means you can see the floor of your laundry then yes I am not coping. I wouldn’t even know what colour the tiles are.

If coping means you don’t message your husband and tell him his kids are tipping you over the edge today and to please come home as soon as he can and bring groceries for tea and bread and probably snacks because his sons seem to be stockpiling them in their guts like some sort of internal bomb shelters, then yes I am not coping. And if you message instead of call because you might cry if you talk to him, then yes I am not coping.

If coping means you don’t entice your kids into a 4.30pm bath with the lure of icy poles and their favourite music, then yes I am not coping.

And if coping means your kid’s main dietary intake does not involves fish fingers, then yes I am definitely not coping.

But Ash came home. He brought the groceries. The kids got their bath. They ate something. We watched some Ninja Warrior together. We read some books. They went to sleep loved and safe.

Coping is messy you guys. And sometimes it looks like you’re not okay, sometimes it feels like you’re not okay, because sometimes? You are not okay. And that, is OKAY.

We have our annual days about mental health, which are so fantastic in drawing attention to a really important issue. But thinking about whether we’re okay, checking in with each other, supporting each other, that goes for every day of the year. It is okay to not be okay and the more we can talk about having a hard time, not in hushed whispers but in normal conversation, the better it is for everyone. The more we can laugh about it? Even better. There is a difference between moaning and sharing our feelings. It doesn’t make you ungrateful and it doesn’t mean you love your babies any less. This is something I am only getting better at realising now.

Because if we think coping means always having it all together all of the time then I don’t think any of us are coping.

I read a quote a while ago that said ‘Everyone wants to hold the baby, but who holds the mother?’ and I guess I hope my words sometimes hold you. But even better, I hope you have someone you can lay your hard days on, who doesn’t judge, who doesn’t even offer advice. Who just says ‘I hear you.’

Thanks for always being that person for me.

Eliza xx

*Yes Mum, I’m fine, just verbal diarrhoea-ing again.