Motherhood

What a week!  The car got a flat and the furnace broke down.  It’s still winter and the kids have been complaining about how hard it is to get out of bed when it’s so cold. Thankfully they are all off to school, and I can take a break and have a cup of coffee.

My mind wanders back to the good old days when my worries were small – things like what to wear to work, should I get my nails done this week or next, what to do and where to go on the weekend. 

Thank goodness for coffee! It’s invigorating and gives me a good excuse to stop, rest, put my feet up and let the dishes that need doing sit awhile. The quiet is so restful, but I know won’t last. The five year old will need picking up in 3 hours. Better get busy! But no . . . just a few more minutes.

I hear the birds singing. I can see a miraculous display of clouds – white against the blue. I noticed the crocuses coming up yesterday. “Spring always comes”, I tell myself.

I glance down and notice what I threw on after I rolled out of bed this morning – before I poured five bowls of cereal, wiped three runny noses, cramped three pairs of small feet in shoes, looked for lost coats, homework, library books, and backpacks -- and finally shooed them out the door.

I am wearing my old blue house coat. “A house coat,” I think! I had no idea I would end up wearing a house coat like my mother used to wear. I was determined not to turn out like my mother and now I believe I have.

These days I have to check myself before leaving the house to make sure I am not wearing cereal.

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Words I picked from above: Complaining, wanders, nails, quiet, singing, bowls, determined

“I’m not complaining. I love my life,” I think to myself. I say it out loud to myself in the bathroom mirror. I struggle to shake the sleepiness off and begin the process of plastering a loving, cheerful smile on my face. I want my children to remember their mother as a sweet gentle soul, not a marauding monster wandering about the house biting her nails.

I keep trying every day to be a better mother, but mostly I just become quieter and quieter -- stuffing the rage, the boredom and the exhaustion.

To hide my feelings I sing. When I start singing to the kids, they know things are bad. They become quiet and the chomping and the chewing and the ringing of the spoons against their cereal bowl dies down, and a miraculous quiet settles in. Then I plaster the smile back on, determined to be a better mother. To be Mary Poppins or Mother Theresa. To not be tired and lonely and bored.

In the background I hear the baby begin to squeal. It is like nails on a chalkboard. I just smile broader and brighter.

“I’m not complaining. I love my life.”