Oh Mother’s Day.
Facebook is filled with pictures of flowers, candy, and brunches. Appreciative statements for one’s own mother, and brags about how amazing your kids are.
Let me tell you about my day.
I woke up at 5:45. Wait, what’s that? My internal clock doesn’t reset because of a day on the calendar? Weird.
I did indeed get some lovely flowers (and a balloon!). But I came downstairs and was completely ignored by my offspring. Why? Because that is pretty well how it always is. We’re not social people in the morning. Only the word “donuts” brought them out of their haze.
So we ate donuts, and they went back to ignoring me. They kind of half paid attention while handing me cards and gifts (handmade cards, at least; gifts purchased my by husband without their input due to a lack of enthusiasm. And then my husband went out to do some yard work because it has been raining for an eternity and we have to get rid of our yard waste this week.
You see? This is life. The calendar can’t make me more interesting to my kids. I’m their mom. I’m simultaneously the most important person in their lives and the most invisible. And my only real desire for the day was to not yell, and read a book. Because, it’s the little things.
So then, my stomach started to hurt. Because we’ve been incubating our 4th stomach bug of the school year this week.
And then N threw up. On the dog. On the dog. On the motherfucking DOG people.
And this too? Is life. Real life. Not Hallmark life. Not roses and candy life.
This? Is motherhood.
Motherhood is ignoring your cramping bowels to clean vomit off your child, and then the dog. And then your child again. And giving up “your” day to hold your sick child all day, encouraging him TO vomit to just get it out. While still being violently ill yourself, and not being able to go near anyone else.
And realizing that hey, you made it through the day without yelling, and you read a book. (Hunger Games, again, which is unexciting, but I needed something familiar and easy reading.)
And that hey, you have a kid (or three) to vomit, and a dog to be vomited on.
So really, while it was a thoroughly shitty day in terms of being “honored”, it was damned clear that I’m needed, and wanted.
Which is probably more fitting and reflective of real life than all that other stuff anyways. This is life with small kids. It just is. None of us are going to remember what happened on any given Mother’s Day or any other holiday (though the dog getting puked on will be hard to forget), but we will all remember that how when they needed love, and comfort, and a gentle touch I was always there.
Which is a pretty great thing in the end.