Last night I took some Benadryl at 11 p.m. because my eye sockets were aching. Allergies, who needs them?
At 3 a.m. Tobin decided it was a good time to get up. “Mama! Where are you? Yiving Womb!! (which means “I want to go to the living room”). It took a good hour to get him settled down again, and at 6 he was ready for the day AGAIN. I stumbled into the Yiving Womb like a drunken sailor early in the morning and slapped together breakfast.
Breakfast was a piece of bread with peanut butter. No jam. No toasting. It was a miracle, that little piece of bread. It almost didn’t happen. I was so tired. Weigh heigh and up she rises, you know?
Motherhood makes you see things differently. The small things get bigger and the big things get smaller, and suddenly life is very clear. I don’t know. I just know that before having three little boys I never would have been impressed with humble bread with plain, smooth peanut butter.
For the first years, I judged myself. I thought, “Good mothers make eggs.”
Don’t think that way, it will just make you miserable. Do what you can do. Celebrate the slapped together sandwich.
If I had made eggs this morning, I would be testy during the whole process. I might have snapped at the children and kicked the dog.
Instead I flopped on the couch and did the classic snooze with one eye open bit. The kids will remember sitting on their mother, watching “Little Bear” cartoons. One of them will remember sucking his thumb and sitting on my ribs, another will remember sitting on my knees and another will remember trying to climb on the entertainment center just to make me crazy.
Good memories. Peanut butter memories.
I call my boys “peanut butter”. Once Sheldon yelled at me, “I’m not your PEANUT BUTTER” and I sighed. Five minutes later he wanted to tell me a secret. He whispered it to me in the laundry room, “Actually, I am weally peanut butter. Shh. I weally am peanut butter mom.”
I smiled. I knew that already.