Let me begin by saying that I am no way shape or form a picture perfect Mom.
I don't measure anything I bake (if I bake anything at all)
I often look unkempt (pjs till 2pm.)
I don't make caption worthy breakfast' ( and I'm usually downing goldfish crackers myself by 9am)
.......and I don't do Mommy and baby play dates with other Mommys and babies, cause well......I got other shit to do, animals to feed, daily work to be done, and minutes to be filled.
So when you read this next lil excerpt please don't picture a picture perfect Mom. Don't picture the hair all done pristine, The makeup seemingly unseen, and the clothes up to date and fashion forward, the dinner on the table, something from better homes magazine.
No. Please picture, a girl in her sweats, and muck boots, with chicken feed somewhere in her hair. The house a blissful mess of toddler toys. Something burning in the toaster oven. dust bunnies hopping all around the house. A sweet, beautiful, terrifyingly intelligent, baby girl sitting on her hips, as she gets "stuff done, " around the yard.
That's the real picture.
So here goes.
I was hanging up some laundry last night after our daughter went to bed. I was hanging up clothes that couldn't be put in the dryer because they would shrink beyond wearing (mainly-my hoodies that I like to keep obscenely baggy for my "I'm feeling large days").
As I hung them I thought to myself, " how easy it was to do this with both hands." I could hang them upstairs with out the fear of our baby girl falling down the stairs after opening our bedroom door when I wasn't looking that split second. Or her getting into the toilet and doing something with it that would cause my human germaphobeness to unleash pandemonium. There was no lil one to get into some sort of self harm as I did this boring chore. It was easy to do.
It was so easy in fact, I could actually take my time......I could have three minutes of quiet, and peacefulness, and concentration. The laundry could be hung with actual strategy and care.
I ponderd this for a spilt second as I finished and waked into our bedroom.
There was our daughters bath tub.
Full of clothes that need to be donated.
Surrounded with her stuffed animals she pulled from her room.
Binkies abounding as I stepped over her tub.
Previously folded laundry placed in random piles that acquired thought beyond my possession.
I took it all in.
It was help.
Help that I "asked for," earlier in the day.
With previous loads of laundry that i had done earlier in the day, and wanting to get put away, I had asked for my daughters, "help." I thought to myself it's something I need to get done before I do ab and c, and our daughter can feel busy by"helping. "
Her help consisted of taking her bathtub out of the bathroom.
Placing old clothes in it.
Organizing particular stuffed animals around.
Making piles of Mommys folded laundry.
Enjoying some bright colored binkies, while doing so.
This was the best help I could have asked for.
I went back to my seconds before, of my "peaceful, " orportunity to hang laundry as our daughter slept.
The ease that I had done with now seemed so lonely.
The time I could take doing it was empty.
The enjoyment I thought I had of a moment "alone," was now vile.
I missed her as she lay sleeping in her room a few feet away.
I almost wanted to wake her up, take down all the hung clothes and have her help me.
It was a moment in mommy hood that I don't think I'll forget.
My. Special. Helper.
My best friend.
My heart walking around on the outside of my body.
It hit me.
I love being a mom.
I love even the "difficult, " times.
The late nights.
The temper tantrums in a five minute car drive.
The un asked for hugs.
The willingly share of her food.
The excitement over any animal*and you feel the same way)
The wearing of your clothes.
The smiles when you get her up in the morning.
The breakfast in the couch together as you watch reruns of Match Game 75.
Her eagerness to help you in boring mundane chores. ....
I would take that special help over self sufficiency any day.