I literally just wiped a yellow Fruit Loop off of my keyboard before typing this ( this)- whatever this is. Ramble? Rant? Empathetic outreach to other lost mothers searching for either their sanity or patience.. Perhaps both? Who knows what it is, but it’s something- something consisting of genuine honesty regarding motherhood and the realization that between spilling a gallon of apple juice simply because your mind was too chaotic to tell your hand to grasp the damn thing, and brushing out the spit up ( nonchalantly ) coating your ends as if it were some luxurious conditioner designed only for the best of us, there’s a moment, no matter how brief, where you think to yourself……
To the Mom Losing Her Sh*t
“I HAVE GOT TO GET MY SHIT TOGETHER...”
Now, if you’re anything like me, that moment defines my life- quite literally. I experience that “moment” of questioning my character and circumstance every second of the day.
My house is always a mess and fortunately, I’m not ashamed. I have food sticking to the tiles in my kitchen due to Harper’s new fascination to seeing things drop, and the love seat showcased to the right of my living room has now “officially” been deemed the laundry sofa.
Have dirty clothes needing washed? Throw it on the laundry sofa.
Just washed 459,709 pieces of clothes? Throw them on the laundry sofa.
Find random articles of clothing anywhere in the house and are too lazy to do the adult thing in hanging or folding them.... Throw them on the laundry sofa.
I’d like to think of this “place” - this singular representation of my “organization"- as some form of step stool in getting my shit together, but it’s not. It’s a one stop shop, meaning for about two months… there it aaaallll will be.
What are other clues screaming out that not only am I a mess, but I absolutely… one day must… get my shit together?
My child tells me what groceries we need.
I have a pile of school papers I have YET to go through
Yesterday, I found a moldy orange in my back seat. I don’t remember ever buying oranges, nonetheless seeing them in my car.
Speaking of cars, I haven’t washed mine in about a year and a half.
Dinner, 3 times a week, is “ fend for yourself.” I have cereal, sandwich meat, and a box of some kind of leftovers that I “think” is still edible sitting on the second shelf of my fridge.
I play the game of “ let’s see how many dishes I can fit in my sink” twice over before taking any action in remedying the “stink” plaguing my kitchen.
I don’t know what creatures, food, or stickiness lives in my hair. At this point, I simply don’t care.
I wear my rain boots like slippers. Sunshine outside and have a quick errand to run? Sure, let me slip on these rainboots over my sweats real quick.
I’ve given up critiquing Aimslee’s outfits. Wear what you want child- rock your style.
My kid still has size 4 ( she’s 9) underwear in her drawer.
I mean, I could go on.
Does this make me a horrible person? Does not having a jar filled with cookies lying on my kitchen counter make me a bad mother? Does the fact that my house smells like “ living” rather than apple crisp, count against me? Yes, probably…. but I’ve lost the will to give a damn.
Here’s the gist my friends- and my dear, dear mothers… we do sooooo much. My god, the expectations that come with motherhood are insanely long. Throw in being a wife, a business owner/ employee, and you’re stricken with pure insanity. There is no way those women making biscuits all day, sharing recipes they diligently cook, are “normal.” Can we honestly assume that a screw is loose, if not already completely the hell out? It’s ok… I’ll be the first to admit that my brain is a little wobbly. We have to, we must, take pride in the fact that we’re trying; the fact that despite the world lying brutally on our shoulders, we’re raising ( and doing a damn good job) pretty good little people.
Perfection only exists in our thoughts and in the “reality” imposed on us by the virtual world.
So, next time you feed your babies cereal for dinner or find yourself crying alone in a dark closet because you forgot to sign your child’s field trip permission slip, remember you’re a-ok mama. You don’t have to “show off” to the world who really doesn’t give a shit about you. You just have to genuinely love the ones you would gladly go insane over again and again.
The rest will take care of itself.