I am a highly sensitive introvert living in the middle of a crowd.

Here is what my daily overstimulation cycle looks like:

Boy #1 wakes in a bad mood because he stayed up too late trying to finish the Star Wars graphic novel he was reading, and now his foul mood has followed him down the stairs and to the table, where it sits between his brothers and his mad-scientist hair spearing that crumpled-with-grouch brow.

Boy #3 must be carried downstairs because, apparently, his 4-year-old legs don’t work in the morning.

Boy #4 and Boy #5 wait at their baby-gated bedroom door because we have to cage them in or else they’ll wander and destroy all night, and I’m not quite ready to set them loose, since it’s an ordeal just to get them to follow the simple instructions “Go downstairs” and I don’t want all the books pulled from shelves before I’ve even finished changing out of my pajamas.

Boy #3 says he really wanted the blue plate instead of the green one that sits before him.

Boy #4 and Boy #5 say they need to potty before I strap them in a chair (yet another cage for our sanity) and then spend the next eight minutes chattering nonstop about pee pee and toilet paper and flushing a potty and things I can’t really understand.

Boy #2 interrupts the morning devotional to say I forgot to give them all milk. And I did.

Boy #1 races up the stairs, so he can pick out the book he wants to take to school and then forget to put in his backpack because he discovered, upon looking at the walls of his room, that he forgot to hang up one very important poster that must be hung up right this very minute.

Boy #3 needs me to get him some underwear out of his child-locked drawer (locked to prevent emptying all over the room every time they decide to wear mittens and put underwear on their head) because he slept without any last night.

Boy #2 squeezes the toothpaste while trying to open it because his toothbrush, which I already swiped with toothpaste, fell on the floor and now it’s dirty, and his squeezing makes a sticky mess all over the counter, but don’t worry, he’ll clean it up, and he does. With his tongue.

Boy #1 gets the first of a thousand reminders that he needs to finish packing up because we’re leaving in 10 minutes.

Boy #3 needs me to help him find his shoes, which I saw this morning in the basket where they’re supposed to be.

Boy #2 skips from the bathroom with tongue-cleaned countertops into the room he shares with his brother, who is supposed to be downstairs putting on his shoes, so he can more efficiently distract him at closer proximity.

Boy #3 is now whining that his shoes are not ANYWHERE.

Boy #1 is telling me about a dream he had last night while I pick out clothes for Boy #4 and Boy #5, while Boy #2 is telling me I forgot to give them a piece of their Halloween candy at lunch yesterday and they should get two pieces today because of that mistake, and Boy #3 is saying something about how no one will help him and everyone keeps interrupting him.

Boy #3 is yelling that Boy #5 is climbing out of his seat and sitting on his high chair tray.

Boy #4 is screaming because he can’t figure out how to do the same.

Boy #3 is saying we’ll never, ever, ever find his shoes, while Boy #2 is reminding me that I forgot to give him his focus factor vitamin yesterday and why didn’t I give it to him and what if I never give it to him ever again, and Boy #1 is asking why can’t he wear dirty sweat pants from the to-wash hamper to school like all the other boys in his class.

Boy #1 gets his thousandth warning, and I race Boy #2 down the stairs so we can find Boy #3’s shoes and get Boys #4 and 5 dressed and get.out.the.door, even if Boy #1 is still not ready.

Boy #4 is screaming while I buckle him into his stroller, because he wants to do it himself, except it takes him five extra minutes.

Boy #5 fights the dressing because he knows what just happened to his brother, and he screams, too, when I buckle him because he, too, wants to do it himself.

Boy #1 is begging me to help him with his shoes because he “doesn’t feel like tying them this morning” and Boy #2 is talking about how I forgot to let them play outside last night and Boy #3 is lying on the floor whining because he still hasn’t found the shoes that I put right beside him.

Boy #1 must be reminded to get his backpack on the way out the door, and just before I lock the door because we’re finally ready to go, ten minutes late, Boy #2 says I forgot to get him a jacket and I also didn’t give them all their vitamins today and I just have to give them their vitamins before they go to school because they need them so they don’t get sick.

Boy #2 holds to the side of the stroller, waving at all the high school students we pass on our walk, and Boy #1 hangs onto my arm ignoring the world around him because he wants to tell me about this new science experiment he’s going to try when he gets back home today, and Boy #3 falls behind, whining that he cannot go fast uphill on a scooter.

Boy #3 whines that we’re leaving him behind because he’s not moving at all, and he makes a little effort to catch up and then whines that he just can’t do it, see? and I take a deep breath and just keep moving.

It’s only 7:25 a.m. and I’m already exhausted.

About a year ago I read Susan Cain’s book, Quiet, and I learned valuable truths about the introvert’s stimulation cycle, about how overstimulation can leave one feeling fatigued and irritable and anxious, how this is all perfectly normal and fixable, as long as we can recharge with quiet solitude throughout our day.

I don’t think it’s just introverted parents who need this. We all do.

It’s not easy, as parents, to take a time out of our own, to close our bedroom door for just a minute’s peace, to send children outside for the relief of 10 minutes alone. But in all those daily overstimulation pieces of my days, I have recognized the desperate need for space and freedom—because I am a better mama and wife and person for it.

Sometimes the work of self-compassion is the hardest work of all, because children must be dressed and vitamins must be parceled out and toothpaste must be wiped from sticky countertops.

Always, something else begs our attention.

But we cannot offer others the best version of ourselves if we are not caring for ourselves.

Parenting is hard work. It’s world-changing work. It’s sacred work. It’s also never-ending work.

We can only healthily approach the every-single-second raising of all these precious little people if we are resting ourselves.

It’s worth it to find those moments when responsibilities can be set aside and a door can be closed and a lock can be turned without separation guilt, because we find our center again in the calm expanse of solitude.

Our children will be glad we did.

Rachel is a writer, poet, editor and musician who is raising five (going on six) boys to love books and poetry and music and art and the wild outdoors—all the best bits of life. She shares her fiction and nonfiction writings over at her blog, and, when she’s not buried in a writing journal or a new song or a kid crisis at home, she enjoys reading Cormac McCarthy, Toni Morrison, William Faulkner and the poetry of Rilke. Follow her on Twitter @racheltoalson.