I love my children. I do. I love learning to know them. I love watching them come undone from infancy into toddlers into these people. I love, more than I ever wanted to, being able to be home with them. I love, the way their energy seems to flow infinitely. I love that they are learning to be sort of, friends, with one another. I love that they have these incredible innocent thoughts and questions about the way the world works. The way life works. I love that they can look at a block of wood, five stretchy bracelets, and think, “If I put these together and add Lego wheels, I’ll have a car.” I love the way they believe that play is their life’s work. And they let it consume them. I love that they love hard. That they play tough. That they are obsessively trying to learn all the things in each and every second. Yet their concept of time is so underdeveloped that they don’t feel gripped by expectations of a clock. I love that one more story and one more song can make or break their emotions. That they feel deeply yet, patches can be applied so gently, so steadily, to right their wrongs. I love that if you love them, they are acutely in tuned to that, and they can’t resist the inclination to love you right back. I love the way they laugh… like really, truly laugh. From inside their belly button up through their heart and out of their face, laughter overwhelms them. It’s not just complimentary to you. It’s genuine happiness and acceptance of the moment. I love that.
I do not, however, love cleaning poop out of underwear. That. I just don’t love it. And while I know, over and over, people remind me. And heck, daily — hourly, minutely, secondly — the residual emotions of cancer remind me, this will all be gone at some point and no matter when some point is, it will feel too soon, I have to be blatantly honest — I just don’t get how I’ll ever miss cleaning liquid, muddy, grimey poop that has slid out of undies and onto a leg. I might miss the way his blue eyes stare at me as if to say, “I think this sucks, too, mama.”. Or the way his hair glistens like wheat, sundancing in the summer sunset. Or the way his brothers tell him, “It’s okay, little buddy.” But poop. In underwear. I don’t love it.
And that’s the thing about parenting — and really, about life, I suppose — that I think we all need to inhale a bit and let it waft up to our minds. We must remember that just because we say we love something doesn’t hafta mean we 100% like it. It feels sometimes, currently, with social media and everyone always being so worried about doing every part of parenting right, that we feel guilty if we say that aspects of it, are not that great. And so it took me a long time to figure out that I didn’t have to be a 100% sarcastic, kid-bashing mother. I didn’t have to be a “I love every moment” mom. I could just be me. Somewhere in between loving them and not loving underwear poop. And that would actually be okay as long as I reminded myself that it is okay. Sure, I take the poop because I get all the other stuff. I take the talking back because I get the life-enhancing conversations at the dinner table. I celebrate the snuggles but I take a deep sigh at the screams that come right before a tattle. And while I adore that we all share space that doesn’t mean I truly adore having their stuff in every inch of it. Just because we don’t want this time to pass, doesn’t hafta mean we are immersed and caught up in every single second. Just because we are strong and present as much as we know how to be, doesn’t hafta also mean that we never fall into bed at the end of the day, exhausted. And just because we are mothers, it doesn’t hafta mean we can’t be over the ‘hood, at times.
I love my boys. I am happy to be their mother.
And I think, it’s perfectly okay to love/acknowledge/oogle/celebrate/wax poetic when it comes to the good parts. But also, in the very next breath, totally loathe the shit.
Hoping your day has been more good than poop. And has welcomed more giggles than eye rolls. And the very best part of parenting, I believe, is that if today was full of literal shit, then tomorrow will probably be {even just minisculy — yes. I know that isn’t a word. But now it is.} better.
