This is motherhood.
Thinking every sound I hear is a child crying.
Leaving the house – chronically convinced I forgot something.
Asking kids a million times a day, “did you wash your hands?” and thinking to myself that I am woefully low on sick days at work and wouldn’t be able to keep them home. Please, dear God, don’t let them get sick.
Where the silent musings of my day are interrupted by little people who want to share and reflect on their own day. Of course, honey. Tell me about your day.
Kissing boo-boos.
Looking at the tall tower of unread books on my nightstand. One day I’ll finish them.
Putting on countless Band-Aids. “No, they are not accessories, technically, but that actually looks cute all over your arm, sweetie!”
Signing permission slips and the nightly school checklist that we’ve read together.
Feeling like I am constantly drowning, worn out, and not able to give a single ounce more to anyone but pushing through anyway because there is a job to be done.
Wanting to make their childhood blissful, safe, and free from any future therapy sessions.
Sighing.
Feeling overwhelmed because it seems as though life is nothing more than this ongoing race against the clock; where every minute of the day is accounted for and we must go-go-go or everything falls apart. Or will it?
Sighing some more.
Trying to work out after the kids go to bed even though there are piles of things that need to be organized, washed, folded, put away, or signed. I envy my husband who doesn’t even blink at the thought of working out. It’s just part of his day. I have to move mountains to get a work out in.
Feeling like I can conquer the world when I actually get to work out or at least feeling like I can overhaul the storage closet at 10pm that night.
Feeling joyful when the kids run to the door when I come home from work and throw their arms around me only to feel enraged when they throw an attitude 30 minutes later. I try to come from a place of understanding and remind myself, “They are just tired. I am, too.”
Thinking if I hear the word MOMMY one more time, I might very well lose it. All of it.
Remembering to lead by example.
That the ways and words I choose now will influence how my children act and speak when they grow up. That’s no pressure at all. Drop an f-bomb when I spill coffee everywhere and I risk turning them into juvenile delinquents. No wonder I have so many wrinkles.
Juggling grocery lists. Bill paying. Credit card due dates. Work deadlines. Meetings. School deadlines. Endless to-dos. Budgeting and I mean, SERIOUSLY, budgeting this week’s grocery because how in the hell did we spend $400 on groceries last week? Shit. And payday is another two weeks away.
Sighing.
Reminding myself in the shower that there is a stain on the green uniform shirt and I must get it out before Wacky Wednesday.
Saving for the future. Saving for their future.
Maybe one day I can get a new car.
Getting out of the shower and leaving for work and still forgetting about the shirt with its now irrevocable stain. This is why we can’t have nice things.
Remembering to call the pediatrician for the next wellness visit.
Engaging in a long internal debate as to whether or not to give them the flu shot this year.
Remembering that dear daughter’s VPK project is due tomorrow so I need to stop at the dollar store for supplies tonight on my way home. I will need to leave the office 10 minutes early so that this “quick stop” at the store doesn’t set the bedtime routine back by hours (God forbid). I NEED them to go to bed tonight. Hopefully my boss already left for the day.
Buying birthday cards and gifts and remembering to RSVP to little Timmy’s birthday. Dear son would be crushed if we missed it.
Reminding to schedule my own overdue doctor’s appointment or even a wax appointment (how on earth do I grow so much hair, anyway?)
Remembering to try to have a conversation with dear husband at night before bed; he needs my time and attention, too. I have completely forgotten about him. Sorry, honey. I’ll make up for the lack of affection lately with the wax appointment.
Thinking about the last time dear husband and I had a conversation that didn’t involve our children’s bowel movements (“I thought YOU had been giving him the fiber gummies this week?”) or after-school logistics.
Wondering about the parenting paradox: How can I love someone so much that it hurts my heart but still count down the minutes until they go to bed? How can the joys of parenthood seem to be eclipsed by the chaos of it? Why does it have to be so hard all.the.time?
Why do I get angry at these little faces when they aren’t listening to me for the 10th time about picking up their toys or putting their clothes away but then stare at them in awe and delight as they are sleeping and look like a dream and ask myself, “How is it possible that I am blessed with these two angels?”
Regretting not “soaking in all the baby years” because everyone was right – it went by way too fast. In the throes of it all, I was just surviving. Barely living. Looking back with age and wisdom, I would have done what everyone said to do: Enjoy every minute and burn these moments into my brain. It’s cliche for a reason: It’s the truth. The dishes could have waited. The laundry could have continued to pile up. Writing the thank-you notes could have been postponed. Today will never come again. Let them sleep in my arms forever…Yesterday went by too fast and now only the photos and videos on my iPhone carry those vivid details of the past.
Feeling panic-stricken when my son’s pesky cough won’t subside. What if it’s an incurable disease and it’s taken me weeks to bring him to the pediatrician? I’m a terrible mom.
Feeling groggy and cranky when the alarm goes off because my daughter showed up at my bedside at 3am for the third night in a row – scared – because she heard the sound of a train, while dad remained in a deep, uninterrupted slumber. Then feeling annoyed when he asks why I’m in a bad mood this morning.
Sighing continues.
Mastering the art of applying makeup at traffic lights on the way to school and work because mornings are rushed, and who has time anyway to apply makeup before leaving the house? Oh, you do, reader? Overachiever.
Wiping noses.
Wiping hands.
Lugging a million things, but still somehow finding room to hold one more toy.
Relegating to leggings as my daily “uniform” even to the office because I don’t have time to pull together any other kind of outfit. Plus, they make me look skinny.
Planning birthday parties. Summer activities. Weekend plans.
Orchestrating holiday events and gift-giving.
Telling my husband to grab bug spray and snacks on the way to the baseball field since I’m meeting them there for the baseball game after work. He’ll still forget the darn things.
Cringing when the kids ask me to sleep next to them even though I just want to fall into the depths of my couch cushions and watch Netflix and eat cake. I lie down next to them anyway.
Explaining to an 3.5 y/o and 2y/o why they won’t get to see their “Giddo” anymore; that he passed away and is now in heaven. When asked what heaven smells like, saying it’s like cake and roses. When asked why mommy is crying a lot, wiping the tears and saying, “I just miss my Dad a lot.”
Scouring Amazon reviews while in a meeting to determine the best nickel-free earrings for my daughter who now has some irritation in her ear piercings. Dammit.
Googling everything. But then declaring never to Google anything again because the answer is either “a mild, temporary irritation” that is totally innocuous or it’s cancer.
Envying the other moms who seemingly have it all together. Who seem more stylish, more content, with more money in her bank account, fewer wrinkles, prettier/glossier hair, are more involved in their kids’ lives, have better connections with their husbands, more fulfilling careers, and who demonstrate patience more than I ever could. They probably stay at home, too. (How all of this could be surmised in my head by a five-minute interaction on the playground or by stalking their social media is beyond me.)
Wishing Facebook didn’t remind me that “Four years ago you posted this angelic photo of your precious baby!” Just stop already. It’s painful enough watching them grow, needing me less and less as they gain their daily independence.
Watching old videos of the kids and crying because now those babies are almost 7 and almost 5.
Where did the time go?
It was always there. In between the cuddling, the hugs, the laughs, the trips to the doctor, the trips to the hospital, the first trip to Disney, the hustle and bustle of school mornings, the rat race to pick up the kids, morning chaos, dinnertime chaos, bringing them to baseball practice, dance class, pick-ups from grandma’s house, family dinners, lazy pool days, birthday parties, bedtime stories, potty training, first day of school… the time was always there. It just kept moving along as we were living our lives.
Welcome to motherhood.
It’s heavy and hard and exhausting and most of the time, you’ll wonder if you’re even doing it right. It’s also the most exhilarating and blessed gifts bestowed upon us. I am a better person because of them. I am a better wife and a better partner. I aspire to be the best version of myself. Every day, no matter how hard and tiring it is, I strive to be a more patient, understanding, and compassionate person to them and for them. And on those days where I totally fail, I try to be as forgiving to myself as I am forgiving to the kids when they mess up. No one is perfect.
It’s an honor and privilege to be able to raise children and to be called Mom. And I wouldn’t change a thing. (Except more sleep and Netflix.)
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This post was submitted by guest blogger, Mireille Gennaro.
