PHOTO: SHUTTERSTOCK

The scene was a familiar one.

Sitting on the edge of my 2-year-old son’s bed, I had my left arm secured underneath my 1-month-old baby as she nursed, and my right hand running its fingers along my son’s hair as I tried to help them both settle into their afternoon naps.

Ten minutes prior in the light-pink room just across the hall, their 4-year-old sister gave in easily to her exhaustion and fell asleep within minutes of her head hitting the pillow.

I was a few weeks into the new routine as a mom with three kids under the age of 4 — with my husband back to work and no family local to help with the daily tasks.

It was just me. A baby. And two toddlers.

It was everything we prayed for and nothing I could have prepared for.

So, in that room, while the meditative repetition of the “train” setting on the sound machine started to work its magic on the 2nd and 3rd babies in my trio, a word in my mind was also on repeat.

With every sound of the click of the wheel on the rail, I’d say the word “please” in my head.

PLEASE let this be the day they all sleep at the same time.

PLEASE give me a few minutes to myself.

PLEASE let this be the moment I get a little breathing room.

Because while motherhood was beautiful, I could feel the toll it was starting to take on my mental health. The barely-any-hours of sleep. The inadvertent missing of meals while caring for the needs of three dependent humans. The social media feed that told me that other moms were doing it well and therefore I had to keep up, too.

I was in FULL survival mode.

Eventually, the baby was off into dreamland, and my son became settled with his favorite blue blankie tucked right under his chin.

I used every ounce of the strength in my core and my legs to move as slowly as I could off that bed to not disrupt my toddler or the baby in my arms, and I made my way out of the room and into the master bedroom where the baby’s bassinet was.

I laid her down, and with a slight adjustment of her little arms … she settled right into her sleeping spot.

As I tiptoed my way to the hallway with the door closed quietly behind me — I felt tears fill my eyes. It was a combination of a feeling of accomplishment that I was finally getting SOMETHING right in this new chaos of mom life, and a feeling of unabashed relief that I would finally get some time when I wasn’t needed.

Because everything I needed at that moment … was just a few minutes of quiet.

As the tears became more emotional,

I took one step down the stairs.

Then the next.

And right as I was about to hit the third… I heard it.

The cry from my master bedroom from a baby who realized she was no longer in my arms.

I paused… and tried to find some sort of semblance of calm and patience, but instead sat down on the steps, looked to the sky and simply SOBBED.

No longer were there tears of accomplishment and relief, they were tears of exhaustion.. and defeat… and frustration.  All so loud now that there were cries coming from the edge of that 2-year-old’s bed, and bouncing off the walls of that light-pink room.

I couldn’t tell you what happened next.

My guess is I wiped my tears, took them all downstairs, let the baby nap on my chest and let the kids lay on the couch and hopefully fall asleep watching their favorite show.

But I likely didn’t tell anyone about it… or the countless other moments like it in that season of motherhood.

Because I thought a “good mom” should be able to do it on her own.

A “good mom” should be grateful.

A “good mom” shouldn’t “complain.”

A “good mom” should love every second even when it’s chaotic.

But at that moment on the stairs… I was a good mom.

I just needed help.

And I needed to hear less “Soak in every moment,” and instead be given more safe space to talk about the heaviness of the moments when the exhaustion felt unbearable.

Because so many parents swim in the guilt that we should feel grateful no matter what. Guilt that we shouldn’t feel overwhelmed because we chose parenthood. Guilt for struggling over children who won’t sleep when we should feel grateful that those no-nap children … are healthy.

But if there’s anything I’ve learned since that moment on the stairs — and through the therapists, doctors and fellow safe-space friends and parents in whom I’ve confided after realizing I couldn’t do it alone — gratitude and struggle CAN exist at the same time.

We can be grateful for our children, and also admit that parenting them can be hard.

We can be grateful for the gift of motherhood, but also admit that we can’t do it alone… and that we deserve help along the way.

The scene looks a little differently today as a mom of now- 11-, 9- and 7-year-olds.

I no longer worry if they’ll sleep at the same time, and those meditative “please” thoughts have turned into ones like  “PLEASE let them feel comfortable talking to me if they are struggling with their mental health.” and “PLEASE let them be safe at school.” and “PLEASE let them be accepted for who they are in whatever room they find themselves.”

But that “we can be grateful and it can still be hard” is a lesson that stays with me … and I allow it to give me permission to admit when I need help.

Something else stays with me, too.

And it’s the recognition that there are countless new moms who have come after me who find themselves sobbing privately in their homes when they’re overwhelmed with exhaustion, when they can’t find a moment to themselves, when they just wish they could find a second to breathe or recognize a semblance of themselves.

And it’s my life’s mission to continue to say to them — over and over —

PLEASE.

Ask for the help you deserve.

You’re not alone.

You’re a good mom.

And it’s OK to admit when it’s hard.

PHOTO: GOSSBOSS PHOTOGRAPHY

Brea Schmidt is a sought-after keynote speaker, social media influencer and consultant and Iris-Award-nominated writer who creates space for raw conversation about our approach to self care and mental health. You can check out her social media community The Thinking Branch on Facebook and Instagram or connect with her on LinkedIn.