Some days in motherhood are like that warm and fuzzy blanket that you just want to snuggle in, wear forever, and never let go. But others look like THIS MANIC MOMDAY. And when they do, know you are not alone.
Yes, here I share a tale from the mom crypt. Come gather your coffee mugs and hear my true tale of survival:
Shaken to consciousness at 5:30am in utter darkness by a hot breathing creature at the right side of my bed, I shriek. Upon gasping and opening squinting eyes, I realize I’m not being abducted. No, this is not a criminal attack. This is my sweet, overly eager 2-year-old daughter boldly belting at the top of her lungs my wake up call to the tune of “Jingle Bells”: “Raisin Bwan, Raisin Bwan, I LOVE Raisin Bwaaaaan!”
I attempt all the so “proven” parenting strategies to get my toddler to go back to sleep and wait in her own princified toddler bed until at least sunrise. There, in spite of all the “brilliant” advice from baby books and parenting blogs, I’m sleep deprived and inexperienced. Nothing works.
5 minutes later . . .
She wins. I tip toe down the stairs, hoping not to wake up baby brother, as I struggle to carry this squirming gleeful toddler girl down the stairs, embracing my complete lack of control. But then, a Normal Vincent Peale Power of Positive Thinking mantra starts playing in my head. So, YES, I was going to rule over this MOMday morning and turn this sucker around.
My hopeful inner monologue went something like this: “You know what, I’m going to TREASURE this moment I have to carrying my baby girl down the stairs. That’s right. She’s only going to be this little once. I’m not going to wait till she graduates college to regretfully wish I would have enjoyed my children. Yeah, I choose to embrace my baby girl and love it!”
So victoriously and confidently, did I place my future opera singer in her high chair to give myself a moment to make some fresh coffee (check-the-box to mommy putting on HER oxygen mask FIRST—See, I REALLY CAN do this).
Quickly, I open the fridge to pull out some maple syrup for the waffles (Sorry NOT giving a toddler Raisin BWAN after what happened that last time—Gasp!) But when the pre-made frozen waffle (cause apparently Martha Stewart was still sleeping 5:35am) pops out from the toaster, a huge and heavy glass jar of Alfredo Sauce had swiftly attached itself to the sticky outside of the maple syrup jar. Just as I realize the Alfredo jar was hitchhiking via syrup-glue to the maple jar from the top shelf of the fridge, the seal breaks and that extra large white jar detaches, violently crashing down from shoulder height, shattering smack on the center of my big toe like a sledge hammer.
There are no words to describe the pain. All I could do was suck in all the oxygen from the room in slow motion, while gripping the cold, black plastic fridge door I suppose for morale support. Next, I hop on my other foot to get my severely throbbing toe to the couch, while curling over pillows in pain.
Life couldn’t get any worse. Right?!?! WRONG! Now as I was trying to figure out what to do with my enlarged painful, purple, swelling toe, my daughter starts shrieking in an all too terrifying tone that only hit the high notes when visited by Mr. Poopie Himself!
“Poopie NOW, MOMMY!”
Dread hits me. There was something about the urgency in her voice that told me DON’T WAIT. There was no time to contemplate whether I should just let her figure it out in the high chair or sulk in self-pity for a few more minutes, the time for rescue and, thus less mess later, was NOW.
So I leap up, hobbling one-legged to that high chair and lift her up and carry her to the toilet, AND WE MADE IT TO THE TOILET IN THE NICK OF TIME! OH, THE SENSE OF VICTORY was like making a touchdown while injured.
But, because I’m standing on one leg, I NEARLY lose my balance and, yes, that caused my already stressed heart to palpitate further, but thankfully I didn’t tip over the toilet with her. AND that was all within the first 20 minutes of the start of my day!
Moments later, I hobble upstairs to discover that last night’s green pees have been sprayed all over her bed. Now greater than the pain in my fractured toe, is the terror I feel in realizing that I must now confront face-to-face cleaning up something that I had avoided for the past 20 years of my life since getting thrown up on in the 4th grade.
Oh, how those evil little peas laughed at me in my self-made mask and yellow rubber gloves. But I didn’t care how ridiculous I looked. And I was taking no chances. And I sent that pink and now-green-poke-a-dot blanket straight to blankee--ahem.
And after realizing I had survived a terrifying wake up call, a fractured toe, an explosive baby, and laughing green peas, all I can say is what my mother always told me: whatever doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger.
So go on and rule over those Manic MOMdays knowing you’re not alone, and keep raising your world changers one crazygood day at a time.