Sometimes, it just feels endless. It’s just one long day, with a tiny bit of sleep in between. I don’t think it’s ever enough sleep to qualify as a whole night’s sleep. So, I wake up and all I see before me is endlessness.
I see my toddler calling my name as though it is a sentence, “Mommy Mommy Mommy Mommy Mom-meeee.” I see myself answering her, to the exclusion of every other adult thought that needs to take place to keep this ship running. I see myself trying to think about something for more than four seconds in a row, and either not being able to think above the mind-numbing shrillness that has now become the calling of my name, or the suddenly too-quiet moment that jolts my brain into realizing something isn’t “normal” and I must go in search of her standing on a table or some other such danger.
I see my older child slipping further and further away into the fog that obscures him while the spotlight is shone brightly on the little one. I hear the turmoil in his life as he switches from trying to tell me every little detail of something that is interesting to him, to getting frustrated with me, to doting on his little sister with such sweetness or trying to protect her, to being the one who assails her. I hear it with those in-tune mother senses, and yet I watch powerlessly as he fades into the fog.
There are two drastically different sets of needs vying for my attention, and though my soul longs to fulfill all of them, all my ears can hear is the beating of my own heart, fiercely pounding out the rhythm of restlessness that reminds me how many of my own needs are not being met.
I am a puppet, but I do not dance. I am yanked to and fro in some sort of gangly display of limbs flailing as words spew out in no particular order and without the benefit of a well thought out script.
There are endless messes to clean up - cracker crumbs, cookie crumbs, bread crumbs, unidentifiable crumbs. There are globs that have splattered and those that have congealed and hardened into some sort of permanent fixture. There are potty sprinkles and water drips and worse - explosive diapers, projectile vomiting, blood stains and cat puke.
There are telephones ringing, bills I can’t pay, bank accounts to juggle, forms to fill out, inquiries to make. There are papers to shred, endless boxes and jugs and jars to recycle, light bulbs to replace, a dishwasher to load or unload - or heck, just try to determine if it’s clean or dirty. There is laundry to spray with stain remover, laundry to wash, laundry to fold and put away, clothing to buy, clothing to purge, clothing to mend. There are batteries to replace, 14 different size screwdrivers to hunt down, toys to curse for the ridiculous way I must nearly injure myself to access the battery compartment.
There are play dates to make, lunches and a bewildering array of bags to pack, routes to plan, and a whole host of “ace in my sleeve” games I must conjure up as “while we wait” sanity savers.
There are things to vacuum, scrub, dust, and scrape at with curiosity. There are lists to make, important papers to keep track of, and 876 phone numbers and email addresses I must store in my brain.
There is research - so much research, on everything from financial aid to how tall can trees grow to the pains in my own chest. There are computers to reboot, mice to shake and smack, and programmers to plot revenge upon.
There is milk to buy - AGAIN, diapers to buy - AGAIN, and longer jeans to buy to accommodate a growth spurt - AGAIN.
There are invitations to make, thank you cards to write, rooms to reorganize, forgotten toys to sneak out, 48 different tools to gather just to open 3 new toys.
There are moments to capture on video, memories and milestones to document, 3 owners manuals and 23 pages of website instructions to read to figure out how to then share those priceless gems.
There are baths to give, splashes to sop up, toys to air out, knots to detangle, fingernails to clip, hair to cut.
There are forgotten vitamins to take, doctors to avoid, weight to lose, and a pan of brownies whispering “resistance is futile”.
There is an infinite sea of reading, writing, calculating, budgeting, consuming, restocking, sorting, bagging up, bringing home and hauling away; an unending wave of checking, double-checking, turning off, unplugging, putting up higher, hiding away, and locking. All this is amidst the never-ending current of planning, asking, begging, coercing, manipulating, bartering, distracting and outsmarting.
And yet, when, in the endlessness of “Mommy Mommy Mommy Mom-meeee” and listening and refereeing and safety patrolling and training up in the way they should go, does anything else get done?
After all, I haven’t even eaten a warm meal or used the bathroom in 8 years and I’m not even sure I could pick my husband out of a line up.
Endlessness. Overwhelming, Stressful, Exhausting Endlessness.
Yet somehow, in the midst of it all, a mother is still so aware how fleeting the “little-ness” is. If only we could freeze in time those little arms and legs that snuggle us, those silly “mwaaahs” as they attempt to blow kisses while smacking themselves in the nose, the excitement in their little voices as they ask for a “gockie” (cookie), the way they hold the tv remote to their ears and say “Heh-wo”, the most priceless little giggles. If there were only some way to keep all of it and yet fast forward to a day when they’re more independent at the same time, we might just feel whole - like we could actually enjoy them and yet breathe at the same time.
But for now, I’ll just hold my breath and try to brace myself for the next yank on my puppet strings. I’m sure if I turn blue, nobody will notice anyway.
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