For me, motherhood looks like this a lot.
Though attempts are made to hang out and play together, people ultimately end up mostly doing their own thing. We are only organized on the surface. Our space is loud and often crowded. People aggravate other people for the fun of it. You want that straightened out paperclip? No I want it. NO I WANT it. I mean, who wouldn’t want a treasure like that? Especially if he wanted it first.
I keep my fingers crossed no one breaks anything…else. I remind myself to check the littlest one’s grip for permanent markers. Because this Oscar child of mine always seems to find my hidden stash and then it’s nothing but hieroglyphs for days down the hallway and on the leather couch and the back of the dining room chairs. And. Really. Wherever his fancy strikes. Toddler art is sweet, but it’s added to one of the premature wrinkles on my forehead. For sure.
Motherhood is people always being in my face. Asking me why I have that thing on my chin. Oh that? Oh that. It’s called adult acne. And please don’t touch it. I hate to point fingers, but ———–>that is from the pregnancy hormones surging through me right now and possibly the stress from raising you folks.
So, that thing you see there? You did that to me.
Motherhood is people telling me things like “I feel like cleaning my room. Can you believe it?”
Not really, no.
Motherhood is nodding all impressed that there’s vacuuming happening. That beds are being moved even to reach darker recesses where dust bunnies dwell.
Motherhood is realizing that cleaning and vacuuming and bed-rearranging were merely stages 1, 2 and 3 in a 4 step plan–the final goal being furniture rearrangement for better trampoline placement when one jumps off the dresser. CANNONBALL y’all.
Eh, sometimes you fall hook, line and sinker.
Motherhood is being told that you’re not to get up until you’ve finished coloring BOTH sides. Even if you have to use the bathroom. But I really have to go…. I’ll be quick. No? Sigh, pass the magenta and the midnight blue. Let’s get this sucker done.
And without a doubt, without any hesitation, it is safe to say that 99.999% of all of motherhood is about putting stuff back together. It’s about fixing things that you never thought you’d have to fix. Because those things were minding their own business and FINE just a moment ago.
Also, hey where are my keys? And who took my phone?
Motherhood demands food and drink and food and drink and food and drink. Like, over and over and over again.
Motherhood is the most repetitive thing I’ve ever agreed to. Makes me feel like taking plastic straws and stabbing them through my retinas.
Offering supportive, encouraging words while dodging projectile stuffed animals. It’s a defensive skill you learn.
Yeah, motherhood is about just being there.
Being there to say things like Tillie? Tillie. Stop biting your nails.
And also Will you sing to me again? Oh yes, I love you and your singing. Motherhood is about meaning it.
Which brings us to the end.
Despite the constant mess, the insane volume, the mind-numbing repetition, all the repairs and despairs and commotion–
There’s her face. And his. And his. And his. And….
…….I couldn’t love this weirdo motherhood thing more.
I mean it.