I worry that I complain too much about motherhood. That I don’t celebrate it enough, that I simply stare at the challenges with a grimace instead of welcoming them as life at it’s fullest.
I worry that I look at the negatives too often, the poop and the spilled milk and the lack of sleep.
It’s the exhaustion speaking, of course. The exhaustion that comes from the day-in-day-out care of a home, husband, toddler, and job despite eight hours of sleep each night. The exhaustion of the to-do list and the reviews, whether they are quarterly by a boss or simply the watchful eyes of judgmental strangers.
I hope I never look back at these days and only think of the screaming in the car when I have to tell Harrison sharply to stop kicking Momma’s seat. I hope that Harrison never remembers his childhood as Momma always speaking sharply.
Instead, I hope he remembers how much I enjoyed packing his yellow bee lunch box, trying to decide what he’d like best that day.
I hope he remembers all the trips to the park and how I blew his oatmeal cool every morning for well over a year, even when it didn’t need cooling.
I hope he remembers how we walked as a family, three in a row with him in the middle and he grabbed our hands and we counted to three and his legs kicked up in the air.
I hope I tell him one day how I used to lay in bed at night and sniff the lavendar baby wash on my fingers, because he was sleeping in the other room and I missed him.