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Being a mom is hard. That's it in a nutshell. I'm not going to sugar-coat it. I'm not one of those flowery, ethereal mothers who have it all together who spout off about what an absolute gift from above that motherhood is, their hair perfectly coifed, nails done, macaroni necklace in place. I used to pretend I was one of "those". Now I just smile and nod when I listen to someone going on and on about how rewarding motherhood is and how baking cupcakes for a school party is SO fulfilling. I have come to accept that this is just not me. I drag myself out of bed each morning and stumble into the bathroom to splash my face with some cold water. This is usually after my 3-year-old has popped up alongside the bed at an ungodly hour. Which is the most fun way to wake up, isn't it? Opening your eyes from a dead sleep to a little face grinning inches away in the half-darkness. So inevitably, the haul downstairs is with a little one clinging to some part of my anatomy/clothing. I shuffle to the kitchen like my 85-year-old grandmother, looking for a sippy cup to fill with milk. After my 5-year-old makes his way downstairs, I have more hands on me than a puppy at a preschool. I unwrap myself from little limbs and make my way, with my two ever-present bundles of joy, to my bedroom. I have to hustle my oldest son out before I get dressed. This is a new development-ever since he began pointing at me and asking "what is THAT?" A friend of mine had a similar experience when her son, looking at her breasts, asked "why do they look like pancakes?" Ah, yes, children will sure take you down a few notches. My favorite thing to get from school are the drawings my kids do of our family. The artwork is enjoyable, but I wonder how exactly they see me. Is it reflected fairly in their portraits? Do I have skinny legs that are far too long for my body? Shoulders that would make a linebacker jealous? Being a mom can give the woman with the highest of confidence low self-esteem. Three days a week at the gym, walking the dog twice a day, always on the go, I'm pretty pleased with myself, not bad for two kids. Just when I'm feeling pretty good, the brutal honesty of a 3-year-old can send me into a workout frenzy. Last night he sits down beside me and snuggles in on the couch. My husband asks "Hey C-why don't you come over and hang out with me?" and lovable, sweet, innocent C replies "Mommy's squishier". Ah, from the mouths of babes.
