Done-zo.

I definitely judged a mom once for saying she was annoyed with her kid.

Then this morning my feet flew out the door as fast as they could — after emptying the three year old’s pee and putting my shoes on and kissing my babies goodbye since I knew I’d miss them within ten seconds of pulling away — and I said good luck to their favorite sitter.

But goodness, I was done. Done-zo.

I found myself in some aisle of Walmart just staring aimlessly.

Toasted.

That essentially sums up my mamahood right now.

If I could cry, I would cry.

But my tear glands seem to have dried up?

Instead I find myself laughing at really bad jokes and my really sad breasts that no longer have the “mil”.

Shouting without warning except for the straw that was finally put on my back,

And stopping mid-dish doing to sit on the floor and let my children monkey all over me while I, again just stare, at the dirty stove now at eye level.

And then I feel the feelings,

annoyed, aggravated, overwhelmed, kinda just done mom-ing with my boys. My sweet, precious, wild, and all consuming boys.

I love being their mama.

Sometimes I think I might burst, from all of it.

On the very kite-fly highest of days I think elation might erupt from all parts of me. The the calm I know they know from me, the unsolicited I love you mommy’s, the slow but giggle filled mornings, unwarranted snuggles,  the friendships we share with other wild things, the made up songs, the way they look at me, their affection for the man I love, the bath time happiness, the brotherhood bond, when the oldest one speaks of Jesus.

It’s just so good.

But oh my word it is SO hard. 

Was it what I expected?

No no no no no.

I see my sad breasts and I laugh at my three day hair. I have supplements and coffee on tap and the reality of my so very out of control reality might actually floor me soon. On Sunday, that sweet Mama’s day, I found myself a little bit of a mess. I thought

They should have a kid’s day. No wait, that’s every day. 

And so is Mother’s day. It’s all day. All the arms. All the needs. All the time. The clock doesn’t stop.

It’s all the good, but the hard can’t be ignored, and I don’t think it should be swept under any rugs either.

I’m living the life my just Margot self always longed for, and more. It’s a dream come true, with a whole lot of layers.

You can’t clock out.

The more includes the unexpected. The unexpected health crises, the cancelled plans, the three years of horrible sleep, financial dealings that were never budgeted for, a lot of noise, a whole lot of noise, managed anxiety…but still anxiety… disconnected time from their daddy, sneaky guilt and a lot of skin and folds and tired limbs that weren’t there before.

Those unexpected things feel a little more blaring, they dish out nostril flares and deep breathing, they spike the hormones in really fleshy ways.

My husband’s so kind,

What can I do?

And I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, because I so easily feel defeated and undone, especially after this year.

And sometimes that question makes me want to rip my hair out.

Because the truth is, you can’t quantify it to a number. There’s no number of time out coffee breaks…sleep in days…massages…favorite cookies…text messages that can affirm & nod their head to what mamahood really is.

But, and this is my prayerful solace for you…

someone who decided this was a good idea to begin with, someone who loves my babies infinitely more than I ever could, someone who chose them for my womb and decided we were a perfect fit, someone who goes before all of the unexpected and waits for me there…

On the crumb-filled floor, and in the sky with all of my kites,

He chooses to hold me each day, as their mother.

And when I’m done-zo,

It keeps me going.

 

 

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