What I Didn't Know About Motherhood, Volume 2,857
I walked into the downstairs powder room this morning only to find the remnants of a pop-tart exploded all over the floor, scattered into all four corners of the room - even behind the toilet.
Last night, I caught my daughter pouring diet soda into a cookie cutter that was sitting on a saucer. Then she tried to deny that's what she was doing, even as she held the soda bottle in one hand and the cookie cutter in another.
Over the weekend, my son (in no particular order): ran around in his underwear, repeatedly snapping the waistband and screaming "I'm a cowboy!!", tried to paint the cat with a semi-melted chocolate bunny, lined his army men up in the lunchmeat drawer and lotioned inside his ears.
Kids! And while I'm on the subject, how about my cats? Why does my 20 pound cat want to get all cuddly half an hour before the alarm is going to go off? And why must she lay on my belly when I have a screamingly full bladder and it's cold outside those blankets?
And why did I let the kids talk me into an indoor campout on Saturday, complete with a pup tent pitched in the living room, when that was apparently an invitation to the kitten to launch himself repeatedly at the top and sides of the tent all night long? And why-oh-why did I think my forty-something back would be OK sleeping on the floor all night, spasming and jerking every time there was a flying kitten attack?
Why do I keep asking why? I ought to know better by now.
It's because I'm a Mom, that's why.
Like that great old Mom line, "Because I said so," it is a conversation ender and that is that.
I'm a Mom.
Asking why is futile.
I'm just along for the ride.