Then there are the days where you have a two hour Doctor appointment with two kids. It’s enough to drive a person to drink.
And just when you think you can’t take it anymore, there are poo poo problems on the back porch. That’s all I’m going to say about that…
I’m thinking being a mother is a battle, not a job. Mothers have to fight for their sanity, their children’s character, and to keep Spongebob Squarepants out of the living room (What? He’s annoying).
We fight for toilet flushes and kind hands, and we fight to keep from crying hysterically over an unfilled vitamin prescription that was supposed to be filled. The little things can make a Mother crazy, and instead of focusing on the amazing miracle of a small person wanting to be held and kissed, we raise our eyes to the heavens and say, “Dear God, what am I supposed to do with all these kids?”
These prayers usually happen when there has been a spill of some sort, or a nap drought, or a permanent marker found and used irresponsibly.
For me, these prayers happen pretty much every day, because every little thing adds to the waters behind the floodgates of my hormonal eyeballs. I’m eight months pregnant, and I’m getting a little frantic about a third boy, and I’m doing weird things like sorting clothes and organizing closets. I also have an overwhelming desire to wash the windows (this desire only comes to me when I’m pregnant).
So I’ve been fighting this war with water hoses and I’ve recruited sunshine and lots of “outside” to help me keep my sanity, and my perspective.
FYI: Sunshine and hoses are an Atomic Bomb against bad attitudes…do you like how I’m mixing poultry with militant phraseology?
Shel has moved into a big boy bed. The day of big boy beds has come suddenly and unexpectedly.
That’s the thing about this war, if you focus too much on the fight, you miss out on everything.
So take some time to leave the laundry in a pile, and pet your chick.
There will always be dirty laundry, and mosquitoes and bad breath. There will be cavities, spilled apple juice, and emotional roller coasters.
But, there wont always be fluffy little babies to snuggle and homemade cards with illegible chicken scratch that only your chicks can decipher for you.