Some days, after putting in the 9 to 5 and managing all my stuff to the letter without even breaking a sweat, I come home to house full of boys and noise and flotsam and jetsam and I am lost. I am unseen, unheard, unheeded when all I really want to be is helpful. Managerial. Motherly, ya dig? All I want is for everything to be clean and tidy and organized and well-oiled. All I want is for everyone to LISTEN to me, let me delegate and jump when I say so.
And on those days I stand at my kitchen sink, immersed to the elbows, back turned to the world and I let my mind wander to a place that is just mine, where I am in total control. A place where coats and wet towels are always hung up. Toilet seats are never pissed upon. Beds are always meticulously made. Dirty dishes never linger. Chores are always done before the Tele’s turned on. In my mind this place is beautiful and quiet and cozy and Oh That I Could Run There Now. Run and hide and stay awhile, reconsider this whole Parenting thing, decide if it’s really for me after all.
And then, one of the pre-teen-used- to-be-wee one’s, ambles in face aglow, bouncing and singing about lollipops and peppermint fields. He snatches me out of my tidy dream with his day-dirtied hand upon my back. He smiles and calls me “Momma” and suddenly I am home, I am his, I am happy.
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Originally posted in January 2008
