“It is the best of times. It is the worst of times,” I said through laughter as I discussed parenting with a checker at HyVee a few weeks ago and loosely quoted the infamous sentiments from A Tale of Two Cities {yes. 80% of my adult interaction each day does happen to be with sales clerks. And yes. I do have a love affair with HyVee}. She laughed back, saying, “So true.” One child cooed and flashed a wide-eyed grin. And the other two ran around in circles, chasing after one another. Which meant that, of course, no less than two minutes later, one of them fell forward, and dropped his recently acquired sucker to the floor. Resulting in blood-curdling screams that made on-lookers believe he surely must have broken his brain. Or his leg. Or maybe even had some sort of hamstring pull. But no. The scream to end all screams, the scream heard ’round the world … had nothing to do with any brokenness of body parts or detached limbs … no, it was in response to the ill fate met by the sucker that was now smattered into sucker dust on the ground below. “Just another thing to blame on sugar,” I said through a smile. I then dusted off the crier. Grabbed another sucker {I’m no rookie here, folks}. And my cart. And high-tailed it outta that joint. Partially mortified. Partially thrilled that I handled it, again. Three boys in tow. Still. Alive.
The best of times and the worst of times. Yep, I thought. Just keep swimming… Just come up for air.
Does that sound harsh? Maybe. Maybe I’m not supposed to admit that. Or that sometimes, I imagine being on a beach with a drink in my hand instead of holding the door for a tantrum-throwing toddler. Sometimes, I think that I’d love to spend the day at Scooter’s with a laptop instead of carting children to and fro. And I most definitely would rather have drinks with my girlfriends instead of peeling poopcident pants off of a kid. In fact, sometimes I have entire weeks {heck, maybe months} where I think, “this is hard. Way harder than it’s supposed to be, I am sure. Why am I so tired? Maybe it’s my thyroid. Why am I so crabby? Maybe I have a hormonal imbalance. Why does my house look like a daycare center? Will I be sad when it doesn’t? When did I start yelling? Why can’t anyone make spit-up repelling yoga pants?”
Some moments, it truly can feel like the worst. Or I can feel like the worst. The moments when I find myself wondering why in the samhill there is no manual for the moments when our kiddos are testing and being jerks. As the oldest is trying his hand {and mouth} at talking back. And the middlest is still struggling with tantrums. And the babe, though mostly very amiable, prefers to be trucked around on the hip of yours truly for the majority of the day, and otherwise is working on perfecting a shrill screeching sound to signify that he is dissatisfied with the current logistical arrangement. My children are not perfect. They are flawed. And they are human. As am I. And each of them are just learning how to deal with the emotions and personalities that they’ve carried with them for such brief moments of time. And honestly, so am I. And that, well, that is parenting.
Sometimes… it’s the best of times. In some weird, warped way that doesn’t make sense until you live it. When the sun’s shining just right. And the little pieces of me are singing at the breakfast table. And I can’t imagine anything ever feeling any better than that very moment. Or when you’re out in the fresh air, with the rustling leaves, as the trees sway back and forth, and they hug your thighs for a quick snapshot of the moment. And you stare at it later thinking, I love that they love me without question.
I mean, I guess that’s pretty much this whole blog in a nutshell, right? One post I am waxing poetic about holding a sleeping babe on my chest and how beautiful his sweet little head looks from above, and the next, well, I’m bemoaning having to hold my kid all day long. One post I’m talking about how kids are the shit and the next, I’m talking about cleaning that out of their pants. One post, I’m talking about loving staying home, and the next, I am completely exhausted by it. My love affair with my children’s happenings and with all things related to parenthood certainly vacillates from day to day… minute to minute… second to second.
Because that’s life. There is no part of life that is always easy. There is no part of life that always goes as planned. There is no part of life that is continuously the very best of the best. Those things are not true in other facets of life. So why, on earth, would we even pretend that a standard of perfection is a realistic expectation for parents.
So if you’re having one of those days… just know that most parents do. And if you feel crazy because you can’t stop staring at the beautiful children that you call yours and counting yourself blessed to be a mom… just know most parents do that, too. And if you ever have to say to yourself, just keep swimming… just remember, you’re not drowning… you just need to come up for air. And I do that, too.
