I love being a mom. In today’s world of raw honesty, that can surprisingly be a rather taboo thing to say. The posts that get shared on facebook are often those that talk about hiding from kids, chugging coffee or begging the clock to fast forward to bed time. I get why those are popular; there isn’t a parent out there that hasn’t felt those things at one point or another.
//pauses to sip coffee and check that secret closet hiding spot is still intact//
However, if you ask me if I like my life, even with the fear of being that obnoxiously happy person, most days I will gush that there isn’t anything else in the world I’d rather do. And it’s true. These years of being home with my girls will undoubtedly go down as some of the best years of my life. They are so filled with joy. I love being the one here to give hugs, plan our days, cook our meals and just be with them. This life just fits me and for that I use the often-hated-on #blessed.
When I say statements like that though, it can feel isolating. It seems like the adolescent form of female bonding via bashing one’s own body has transformed into bonding via bashing one’s take on motherhood. You’ll get many hugs and sympathetic nods if you say your kids are driving you crazy, but say that you had an awesome day with them and you’re bound to get at least one raised eyebrow and a polite half-smile.
I’ve often wondered if I, in fact, am actually the oddball (don’t answer that…), but over time I’ve realized that me shouting how much I love being a mom isn’t inauthentic. And it certainly is not because I have it all together (bahahaha), but rather it’s because I’ve discovered I have a very severe case of mom amnesia.
Let me explain…
I’ve often heard a particularly sassy four year old ordering her sister around, which is met first with compliance, but quickly turns into an emphatic noooooo which is displeasing to the older sibling and results in a boldly stated fine, you can’t play with me then! and a door slam.
Yet somehow all that remains in my mind from the afternoon is…
Our Target trip often includes a nice little pouting fest because none of the two-seater carts are available. Instead, the girls decide they don’t need it because they can just as easily squabble over who gets to sit closer to the front side of the cart. There is begging to get out and toddler teeth marks on packages of things I hadn’t originally intended to buy.
Yet, when I think back on these outings, all I recall is this:
There are often scraps of paper littering the floors, sparkly glue dried to the table, scissors that come dangerously close to giving the girls a free haircut, fighting over the red crayon despite the fact there are over 400 others to choose from and paint dried on the dog’s back.
Still, when I think back on art time, all I see is:
A sweet can I help you mommy? quickly turns into incessant questioning of why can’t I open the oven/stir the boiling water/use the sharpest blade we own.
But when I think of cooking together, the picture in my mind is this one:
So friends, even though I sit here currently with bite marks on my shoulder from a particularly colorful before-bed tantrum (from the FOUR YEAR OLD), which I quickly followed up with a generously poured glass of wine after proclaiming I was not having a drink until the weekend (bahahaha), somehow the only memory that remains from the day is this:
Mommy amnesia, I tell ya.
So while I don’t think I will ever fit into the camp of complaining about motherhood, it’s not for the lack of daily challenges to my patience and sanity. It’s because I suffer from mommy amnesia and I just can’t help it. All that sticks in my mind is the sweet stuff.
And I’m ok with that.