Today’s post is written by one of my great friends. You’ve met her before, and today’s post is such an important reminder of being ME and follows along the path that my blog is going this year. Today is the 2nd anniversary of The Scoop on Poop, and it’s a testament to how far I have come as a woman, wife, and mother. This is the longest “project” I’ve ever stuck with and I intend to stick around for awhile longer. Thanks for riding the rollercoaster with me.
Chubby 2 year old hands reach for me as she whines my name pitifully. In a tenderness reserved for a painting of the Christ child and Mother Mary; I cradle her against me about the time she proceeds to copiously throw up down my shirt. It collects in my cleavage and drips down my arms. I don’t care at that moment if this is my precious angel; I want it off of me. I sincerely wonder if the Heavenly infant ever coated his mother with gag.
My name is screamed down the hall, through the kitchen, across the living room and the 4 year old finally finds me putting away clothes in the back bedroom. She points at her feet and declares, “I stepped in dog poop outside.” My mind does a quick architectural sketch of the house and where all she has possibly stepped until she found me. As I put my hands under her arms and do the best imitation of a bio-hazard snatch and grab; her filthy foot rubs up my bare leg. I just want to throw up, run screaming to the nearest shower and scrub myself similar to Lady MacBeth and those stained hands.
It started off as an mild attention getter in the store, but quickly morphed into an ear-piercing-make-a-dog-cry-and-much-louder-than-an-ambulance wail as another child doesn’t get what she wants from the grocery store aisle. I want to leave the cart and slink stealthily away to the coffee shop in the front of the store. I promise I would return after the siren scream ends, but all eyes are on me and the child who successfully identified me as the person who is raising her.
Surely we have all been there. Certainly it isn’t just me. There are times that being a mom is the last thing we want to do. I’ve discovered that it is usually about the same time that they need us to be a mom the most. They need us to comfort them with their sick (no matter how much we are trying to hold our own gag down) to wipe the messes from their feet (and the additional 2000 square feet that contain evidence that they must have stepped on every available area) and to patiently discipline and hold our ground in the face of scrutiny (even if we do want to walk away from the kids and claim we have no idea who those heathens are)
Then there are those moments that just being a mom is all you know how to do.
When my girls lost their father; all I could do is be mom. For a little bit of time after the funeral; I couldn’t face my three girls. I had always been the one to clean up the messes, comfort when they were sick and fix what was broken. My heart was consumed with there was nothing in my mothering bag of tricks that was going to work. My imagination got the best of me and I could almost hear them accusing me of being an awful mom because there was nothing I could do to give them their father back. Being the only parent left; I convinced myself that I wasn’t going to be enough.
Then in that first hour we were together alone; I mothered. It’s all I could do. I wiped away tears, I comforted through clinging, gut wrenching anger and I did everything I could to fix what was broken. It was one of those moments that being a mother was the hardest thing; but like I said before, when it is hard is when they need it the most. I also discovered that when they really needed it; mothering was something my heart didn’t need instruction to do.
There are going to be times in the mothering gig that we are going to wish that we aren’t on the stage. Times that hecklers get to us and times we feel as though we are doing the same scene over and over again with no better results. Yet, there will also be those times that we couldn’t imagine ourselves in any other role. There will come a time that our children call out to us with their hearts and only a Mother’s heart can be the one that can answer.
I’m Alycia aka Crayon Wrangler. I’m a photographer. I’m a writer. I’m learning to live and love again. I’m a survivor of domestic abuse ending in suicide (Read “Deciding To Dance”) I’m a newlywed in a family to total 8 children. I’m trying to get enough coffee in my system.
Alycia’s blog: Color Me Happy
Alycia on Twitter: @Crayonwrangler
And what kind of party would it be if I didn’t leave with something to get your body moving? This is courtesy of L.M.F.A.O. whom I got the courtesy of seeing live when they opened for the Black Eyed Peas a couple of years ago.
Happy 2nd Blogoversary to ME!