In any given week, I have to wash, what feels like 64 loads, of their crusty, sweaty, painty, boy-worn clothes.
I have to change endless amounts of diapers. Filled with poop. Pee. And other foreign objects. And clean up spit pools from carpet, couches, my clothing, your clothing, and the like.
I have to say, “how do you ask?” a minimum of 1,033 times. In one week. In order to get the desired response.
I have to walk around with milk. In my body. To be consumed. By another human.
I have to wake up in the wee small hours to feed, console, comfort, shush, bounce, change, or otherwise tend to their needs.
I have to transport to and fro… To swimming, to practice, to classes, to play dates, to Runza.
I have to deal with sharpie-colored sheets, broken light covers, chalked doormats, markered couches, and gunky handprints, everywhere.
I have to organize stand-ins for date nights, work functions, hair appointments, dentist appointments, and going to the bathroom solo.
I have to endure screaming, screeching, throwing-of-body-to-the-nearest-floor tantrums. In public. At Costco. In the car. And at home. About 18 times a week.
I have to think of every meal, slumber, and breath that make up their day.
I have to do all of those things. And more.
All because…
I get to be a mom. Their mom.
I get to see them flourish. And become people.
I get to see them have friends. And have fun. And enjoy the simplest of things.
I get to see them love others because they know what loving looks like. And how it goes.
:: I get to fill my phone with pictures. My heart with memories.
And my life with a different kind of happy ::
And my life with a different kind of happy ::
I have to do the have–tos… In order to delight in the get–tos.
All because I get to be their mom.