My morning starts the night before as I berate myself in bed for the drama of the previous evening. Yes, O needed a come to Jesus moment, but also, was I too harsh? No, I was just honest about how I was feeling sad. But is that too much? Why aren’t dinners at my house hyggelig and drama-free? I’m trying to instill in my family eating the same food together and talking about our day but my oldest son decides he doesn’t like the spaghetti I made because it’s not the same ingredients as at home. This then prompts A, my second born (who up til then was happily enjoying his spaghetti) to word-for-word repeat what O has just scream-cried. 

Meanwhile, my 20-month old, E, is alternating bites of spaghetti, with fists of spaghetti thrown on the floor. We are staying at my sister’s house while she is away. I am so stressed we will stain her house.

Short of McDonald’s or serving my eldest one of his 3 favorite foods, this is what dinner looks like. 

And I lost it last night. I am done.

I briefly considered joining a convent…it must be so quiet and peaceful. There is no complaining. There is discipline. 

What does it say about me that my eldest (6 years) complains about nearly every dinner? Does he not understand that kids are starving all over the world? That some children would be grateful to have a home-cooked meal and a full belly? No, he doesn’t. But I do, and it kills me. 

So at midnight I think about my privileged white boys not realizing how privileged they are and how to remedy this fact and then I’m thinking how the world is coming to an end, but on a more practical level I really need to sleep because I have to be up in 4 hours when my eldest inevitably wakes up, but then I hear the toddler crying and I go to him. He’s usually a good sleeper, but we are traveling and staying at different places in a different time zone (yes, we are extremely privileged to be able to visit family), so I go to him and decide to sleep by him all night because he is having a hard time. 

I wake up again at 4:00 out of habit and miraculously eldest is still asleep. I sneak back to my room where I eventually get up at 4:30 to make coffee and enjoy the quiet until A gets up at 5:15. (I reflect that according to mom influencers, I should have gotten a workout in, but I am too tired to care.) A is four years old. We have some nice cuddles until my 6 year old gets up. Then it’s go time. I can hear my youngest up but I want to get breakfast in the oven before I get him or he will be highly indignant at not being able to eat right away. I should have started the breakfast right when I got up at 4:30 so it was done when my kids woke up.

I whip together a double batch of Dutch Baby Pancakes and throw them in the oven. Oldest asks to cuddle. Youngest is awake but quiet on the monitor so I cuddle with oldest while thinking, “am I a bad mom for not getting my baby when he’s up? Am I bad for letting him stay in his crib for so long?! But O needs cuddles too.” I reflect for the millionth time that I wish I could clone myself into three. 

A (middle child) is asking me to work on his 1000 piece puzzle with him. I feel guilty for saying no. “Sorry A, I have to get your little brother.” I berate myself: if ever there was a way to make a sibling hate his little brother…

I run upstairs to E thinking about what I can feed him while I’m waiting for the Dutch Baby Pancakes to be done and cooled. I berate myself for berating myself. I’m making my kids more privileged. Think of the kids in Gaza. They would be happy to wait 20 minutes for a meal.

Diaper is changed. Pancakes are cooked and cooled and served. Happiness reigns. The dog we are sitting asks to go outside for a pee. The she runs away. In the pouring rain. 

At least it’s warm outside? 

I get a good sprinkling chasing her down but Denmark has taught me a few things. Aka. I will not die from being rained on, and, it’s a nice warm summer rain and who can complain about that?

Dog caught, I finally pour myself some coffee and sit at the table with my three boys. This is one of those moments that I need to cherish. All three are content and eating. There is no complaining about the meal. There are no hunger strikes. There is no screaming. Bliss. I watch the rain come down and enjoy this cozy moment.

My kids have just discovered what CDs are. My eldest, O, is obsessed with a CD he finds from his aunt’s collection. It is “Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights”. He is jazzed. His dancing looks less like salsa and more like a frenzied mix of river dance and a vague idea of break dance. Are the lyrics the most appropriate and feminist-leaning? No. Am I hoping my kids don’t understand the words? Heck yes. But I am celebrating the small wins.

Dancing ensues, and I feel like I’m winning. My kids are listening to a CD! They’re dancing! They’re not watching TV! I am sort of able to clean up breakfast (while periodically pulling my toddler off the glass table-he enjoys a dangerous challenge.)

Then middle child decides he needs to start chucking his aunt’s CDs at people, because of course. So the CD player goes away. There are protests. “That’s not fair!” proclaims  my eldest. It is not fair to him, true. But how am I supposed to appease all these minions? Besides, toddler is getting interested in the CD player plug and I’m not about to let him electrocute himself. 

“Show time!” I say, giving in and thinking about how this one instagrammer I follow, Manon LaGreve, is very against her kids watching shows, especially while traveling (my kids are firmly glued to iPads during travel from Denmark to the USA) and I feel guilty. I justify this by thinking that it’s a rainy day and it would be cozy to watch a movie together. (Note-we’ve never made it through a whole movie- not sure if that’s good or bad). But we start Newsies and I have to say… that movie has some bangers. My kids are confused about why people are hitting each other. I try to respond in a truthful way that also discourages them from more hitting/wrestling. I immediately doubt myself.

It is quite a pleasant time cuddling with my three boys and my sister’s dog on the couch. And I am also happy at the thought that soon I will get to spend time with my friend whom I haven’t seen in a year. I will get time alone with a friend… no kids… and pretend like nothing has changed. My friend does not have children (by choice) and so it feels like I slip right back into pre-child me when I’m with her. 

I bring coffee up to my husband in bed. “I should probably shower in 15 to make it to my friend’s on time,” I say ever so romantically. Truthfully, it is wonderful saying those words. I’ve never had a problem saying those words before. I’ve always made friends so easily. But the truth is, I have no friends in Denmark. I live in a small town in Northern Jylland and that, plus the fact that Danes are known for being hard to befriend, makes it nigh on impossible.

I shower for the first time in days. It makes me feel more human but, unfortunately, does not wash away the extra weight I have gained as a result of constant stress.

I throw on my sister’s “Pro Roe 1973” shirt, a pair of her yoga pants (did you know moms are not supposed to wear yoga pants because it indicates that they are giving up?) and am out the door. 

Just kidding. Two of my three kids cling to me and my husband has to literally prise them off me so I can get out the door. I get into the car feeling guilty. Should I have stayed? Why am I leaving my children? I’m so selfish taking time for myself. I feel bad that my husband is on sole duty while he’s so exhausted. Should I, should I, should I….?