Each year, the president gives the State of the Union Address. It’s a whole televised thing — so don’t plan on watching Dancing with the Stars that night (learned that the hard way).
The purpose of this speech is for the president to update Congress on the happenings of the country and tell them what is important and what needs to happen next and what should have happened then and there’s a whole bunch of standing and clapping for long periods of time.
Well tonight, I give you my State of the Motherhood Address. It’s not televised (and thank the Lord because you don’t want to see what I’m wearing). For now, you are my Congress. Feel free to stand and clap if you feel so inclined.
I have been a mama for going on 8 years now. I have 4 beautiful children. My youngest is almost 4 months old. I should know what I am doing by now.
But I don’t.
Not even close.
Each day, I wake up in a fog of wonder. It’s like a fun little mystery game. “What will I mess up today? What paper will I forget to sign? Whose life will I ruin with giving them ‘the slimy’ turkey at lunch? Will my child eat a vegetable today?” The suspense literally kills me.
My baby is close to 4 months old, but I still wear my maternity pants. Even worse, I still wear my maternity leggings. Who needs a stretchy panel of fabric at the waistband of an already stretchy waistband? Me. I do. No need to feel sorry for me. I chose this life.
And when I am not wearing my maternity leggings at 16 weeks post-partum, sometimes I am not wearing pants at all. In fact, last week, the doorbell rang, and Charlotte yelled through the door at the stranger, “MY MOM CAN’T ANSWER THE DOOR RIGHT NOW BECAUSE SHE’S NOT WEARING ANY PANTS.” What’s better is that I did attempt to throw on the first pair of pants I could find where I was standing, which happened to be the laundry room, but they were my husband’s…who is skinny…and his pants didn’t go up past my thighs. See also: maternity leggings. So the door went unanswered, and I still wonder if it was the Publisher’s Clearinghouse or one of those MasterCard commercials where Justin Timberlake makes house calls. We shall never know.
Meals are hit or miss. Typically, the relationship is the longer I work on preparing a meal, the more the children will hate it. So, if I spend 87 minutes cooking something from a cookbook and it actually has real food in it, their world will crumble. Life will be over. There will be slouching in the seat. There will be wiping any sauce off with a napkin. There will be crying. Oh, and the kids will cry, too.
But if I spend 30 seconds slapping two pieces of bread together with peanut butter and jelly in the middle, or even better…if I let them eat cereal for dinner…I am The Dinner Goddess. Worship at my altar.
My new favorite thing is to do online shopping while I am awake at 3 o’clock in the morning with Leo. When the packages arrive in two days, I have no idea what they are because I have no recollection of what I purchased. Santa is real, Ya’ll. I can’t wait to see what comes in the mail on Tuesday.
My van has become some sort of apocalyptic survivor mobile. I am convinced that should the world fall apart and we need to seek refuge, we could survive for at least a week by living in our van. I am sure that at a moment’s notice, I could assemble several Happy Meals from the leftover remnants between and under the seats, complete with a cheap plastic toy for everyone. There are plenty of half empty water bottles to go around, and that rogue sippy cup under the seat is surely housing some sort of concoction that will kill all the zombies.
I’m clumsy now. Fatigue will do that to you. I wake up with bruises from running into objects on my trek to the bathroom in the middle of the night. I have been hobbling around for three weeks on a bum foot, and I have no idea how I hurt it. The other day, I bent down to pick up something from the floor and busted my own lip on the arm of our rocking chair. I looked around, pissed, wanting to know whose fault it was…and I only had myself to blame.
The days are long. The nights are longer.
Motherhood. It’s not for the weak.
Each day, I make 1,000 mistakes. I say the wrong thing. I do the wrong thing. I don’t fit the description of a perfect mother, but the older I get, the more convinced I am that she doesn’t exist.
Things are messy right now. And loud. Often smelly. Often it’s me who is smelly. There aren’t enough hours in the day to do all the things, so I try to make time for the important things. Read the books. Do the crafts. Sing the songs. Eat the ice cream. Buy the little plastic toys that they watch grown adults open on YouTube. I used to say, “There’s always tomorrow,” but you know what? They will be older tomorrow. And just a little bit bigger tomorrow. And a little bit less my babies tomorrow.
If I were to give this State of the Motherhood Address a year from now, it would probably look a little different. There may be a completely new set of challenges to deal with and obstacles to clear and phases to grow out of. But I am sure at least one thing will remain the same…
…giving life to my children gives me life, even if it sucks the life out of me.
That, and I may still be wearing my maternity leggings.
