I will be the very first person to admit that I absolutely love being a mother. I love my kids, in all their ages and stages.
I savor long, warm hours spent holding the cuddly newborns.
I cannot wait to see my babies take their first, cautious steps.
I feel all fuzzy inside when my toddlers repeat funny phrases in their little chipmunk voices.
I enjoy hearing my grade-schoolers talking about their escapades with friends at school.
I feel proud when I see my teens helping out younger siblings with more tenderness than I thought possible.
But, there are days, my friends. There are days.....
Currently, I am caught between a rock (my very intense 5-year-old) and a hard place (my very active 13-month-old). Both are very labor-intensive, demanding, and, seemingly, without consciences. At least when it comes to their mother's feelings.
Mr. Rock is going through a difficult phase right now which has it's legitimate causes, but this does not make it any easier when he has attached himself to a clothes-rack in the girl's section of Target and he's "informing" me that he will not go any further unless I buy him a plastic sword. A sword that Target hasn't carried in two years. A sword that he does not deserve and will not receive, especially due to the above-mentioned behavior. A sword that, at this point, I wish was a real sword, so that I could wave it menacingly at the group of old ladies who has gathered to watch our "show".
When we get home from our fruitful trip to Target, Mr. Hard-Place decides that now is the time to try to learn to crawl up the stairs by himself, for the first time. Being 13-months-old, he has failed to inform me of this new goal, and I proceed to (foolishly) turn my back on him and put away my purchases. One heart attack later, I am running up the stairs to catch Mr. H-P, as he sits on the top stair smiling his big, goofy grin at me.
Now, I realize that for you moms reading that this is normal, everyday action. Me too. Everyday. For 13 years, so far.
At this point, I figure I should weigh a svelte 102 pounds, and have biceps and quads that would make an Olympic bodybuilder drool with envy.
Oddly, I don't.
I do know that I am tired. Not a droopy-eyelid sort of tired, but a weary-in-my-bones kind of tired. The kind of tired where you sit on the couch with a kooky half-smile on your face, staring off into space, while your 8-year-old informs you that your bed just crashed to the floor because she and her brother jumped onto it at the same time.
It's not that I don't care, kids, it's just easier to fall asleep here, than it is to fix the bed. Again. For the 187TH time in 13 years.
So, this brings me to the question: who needs the Valium more? Me or my kids?
On the one hand, I could fall asleep at the drop of a hat, but it wouldn't be a deep and regenerating sleep. Valium would give me that.
On the other hand, my kids would receive the same kind of deep and uninterrupted sleep.
Kind of quandry, isn't it?
Ok, I jest. I would never take a Valium (and believe me, my resolve on this has been tested thoroughly), nor would I ever dream of actually giving one to my kids. No matter how tempting. Really. Whimper. Really.
Instead, I'll just continue this little stormy time sitting on the couch, smiling my beatific (in my minds-eye, anyway) smile, seeming calm. At least, when my children are adults they will be able to blog about how their mother was a true saint during all of the chaos, never knowing that, all the while, I was really praying that I could find the strength to wipe the tomato sauce off the kitchen ceiling. Again.