Motherhood: removing the simple to make us simple or maybe just crazy.

On Wednesday, I forgot to wear deodorant because I wore the shirt in which I slept for most of the morning.

On Thursday it took me almost 3 hours to brush my teeth.

On Friday, Jim said, “how was your day?” to which I responded “I EMPTIED THE DISHWASHER ON MY FIRST TRY!” to which he responded, “that’s great!!”

On Saturday, I washed, folded, and put away one load of laundry by 3 pm and wondered if maybe I swallowed some type of rare insect the night before and had thus been granted superpowers.

On Sunday, we made it to 9:00 am Mass with 35 seconds to spare before the celebration commenced and I declared myself for sainthood, and Pope Francis seems so nice I’m sure he would agree.

Motherhood presents a myriad of paradoxes like “how do I love this tiny human so much whom is the reason why I no longer sleep?” One of which I’ve been pondering today is how in the world I feel like I do at least 4 billion things everyday only to realize many things that take approximately .5 seconds to complete never actually get accomplished? And when/if one of these seemingly simple tasks does get completed I feel like superwoman even though the reality is more like: all of the silverware is put away and the floor looks more like wood and less like spaghetti sauce combined with smeared scrambled eggs?

And while all of these read just like complaints sound, they are more a personal epiphany about motherhood and what it does, gives, takes away, requires.

Before children I think I thought about the privilege of brushing my teeth negative 100 times, and absolutely no one stuck their head in the toilet or emptied the garbage, accidentally turned on the shower with their clothes on, spilled my eye makeup, painted the walls with nail polish, or helped themselves to more toothpaste than they did their breakfast. Emptying the dishwasher crossed my mind once every 3rd or 4th day when it took me 45-60 seconds to take the dishes out and put them away never once fearing any crawling/newly walking children would get accidentally stabbed or shatter glass over their heads by mistake. Making it to the gym warranted a high-five and not an olympic medal and/or diamond. A trip to the grocery store involved 20 free minutes and a lot fewer almost run-ins with cars in the parking lot, and unneeded stops at the deli counter for a free slice or three of cheese.

Since children, I bribe them to exit the furnace room when the kind young man is attempting to fix it by saying “if you take your head out of the furnace we can plug-in the spinning Frosty the Snowman” that makes me feel as if I live in a mental institution without any of the drug perks. When I ask the man if he has children he says, “no I don’t” to which I respond, “oh so this might not make sense,” to which he responds “no it does not,” to which I say “please James, remove your head from the furnace and Josie, stop stepping in the mouse traps, and Rita please don’t eat that stinkbug, and please everyone let’s go upstairs before he runs away and quits working for us!” Anyone else’s kids like to follow worker’s around?

And while to some, this life sounds terrible, like one of this blog’s anonymous commenters who thinks “me and my life sound miserable,” its really pretty awesome to go to bed each night and remember to thank God that no one put my cell phone in the toilet while I washed my hair, because I’m leaning towards “not that many people share that with the Big Man.” So here’s to you, Motherhood. Thank you for teaching me gratitude for even the tiniest of opportunities, and may you never let me forget to keep mints in my car just in case all of my toothbrushes are flushed down the toilet again.

And for your viewing pleasure:

3 thoughts on “Motherhood: removing the simple to make us simple or maybe just crazy.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s