Gentle Reader,
Appointment-maker.
Chaser of children. Chauffeur. Chef. Chief diaper-changer.
Hemmer of pants that were too long yesterday but now are too short even after ripping out every stitch. Homework enforcer.
She who prays for naptime. Social director. Snack negotiator. Stylist.
Tear-dryer. Tickle monster.
There are days when you feel overlooked, devalued and certainly under-payed. Sometimes you want to strangle those dear little darlings who smashed a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in between the couch cushions. Again. You wonder if you will ever again experience the wonders of adult conversation, beyond gritted-teeth exchanges with your husband when he asks, “What did you do all day?” (Will he just shut up). You wonder if the cartoons your children love were created by someone in a cocaine frenzy. You “lost” the Frozen soundtrack because, no, you cannot let it go.
You sit up nights with the kid who just won’t quit vomiting. You make last-minute costumes from blue tarps, duct tape and colanders. You scrub and vacuum and put all the laundry away – and then the sweet angel barges through the door covered in mud holding something that might be a bird, except it doesn’t appear to have a head. You shop on a budget and make meals as tasty and nutritious as possible, only to have the dearest wee one refuse to eat and the battle of wills commences and you bite your tongue to keep from screaming, “Just eat the freaking tomato soup!”
You wake up at 3:17 a.m. convinced that the baby has ceased breathing and you have to check and then you cry because everything is fine except she’s got poop all the way up to her neck and you just really don’t want to deal with it but you have to because who really wants to sleep in footie pajamas filled with fecal material but obviously she does because she screams bloody murder when you wake her up even though you performed ninja stealth moves in the process of cleaning her up and you know that she will never, ever forgive you and will probably have to have years of therapy as an adult because you are the worst mother ever.
You see red when someone suggests that your husband “babysit” the kids for an evening so you can have a break. You want the break. You need the break. But he’s not a babysitter. He’s a flipping parent, half-responsible for the honey children currently hanging all over you, clamoring for candy. In fact, where is he? He can take them all. Right now.
You wonder if you are all going to make it. You wonder if you are insane. They must be driving you there. And then a pudgy little hand pulls on your shirt hem and you look down into a face covered in snot and other unidentified substances. “Mommy,” the tiny overlord says, “I love you.”
Stay-at-home moms, I salute thee.
For all entries in the 31 Days for the Ladies series, go here.