Wednesday, June 10, 2015


I'm nearly at the end of a long day, and I am just so done.  Drained.  Exhausted.  Finished.  It's not that the kids were horrible (they weren't) or that bad things happened (they didn't).  Being a mother is just so darn tiring.

Before anyone jumps on my case and says that fatherhood is tough, too, let me just state that I am already aware.  It's tiring.  It's exhausting.  Okay.  But this post is about me, and I am not, and will never be, a father.

And in this household, at least, while Matt works at least as hard as I do, he just doesn't get swarmed by the children like I do.  That's what really gets me -- having small beings fling themselves at me and on me All Day Long. They pet my legs.  They caress and mangle my hair.  They sit on my head.  They butt their heads into my stomach.  They are completely without mental boundaries in their attack on me, touching me in places I don't want to be touched, then flitting away before I can reprimand them.  That's just in fifteen minutes, but they can keep it going all day.

When I am done preparing their food and sit down to eat my own, Henry in particular will climb on my lap, purposely putting his beaming face between me and my fork.  If I try to duck around him, he moves his head to maintain the blockade.  This morning he kept trying to put his feet in my cup of tea, I guess because I was giving it too much attention (drinking it).

And the bra snapping.  I don't know why Henry is so fascinated by it, but any time I pick him up or sit next to him, he tries to reach in my shirt and snap my straps.  This is strictly Not Allowed -- I always remove his hands, and then he sobs in anguish, making me feel like a heartless mommy.

I love my kids.  Really, I do.  But by midmorning I am ready to hop on a plane to Hawaii and not look back for a month.  I keep telling myself I'll sit down and write after they're asleep, but half the time I fall asleep with them, and the other half I'd usually rather do something mindless, like play Candy Crush.

...To prove a point, it's 2:58 a.m. now, and I've just woken up again next to my peacefully slumbering children.  I obviously I didn't get done whatever I was planning to do after the kids passed out. Eat ice cream, maybe?

I should add that I love my children very much, and on the extremely rare occasions I've been away from them for the night (maybe 5 nights in 6.5 years), I've missed them like crazy.  They are sunshine bursting through the walls and windows, flooding my soul with the joy of summer.  They are high-pitched shrieks and laughter, endless giggles as they chase each other through the house.  They are sweet little arms wrapping around my neck, little heads nestling on my shoulder, little voices whispering, "I love you, Mama."

They are the pinnacle of my life thus far, my trembling heart walking around in reckless little bodies. They are my everything, and I love them so very much.

I bet I would love them even more after Hawaii.