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Remember Momma With Love

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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.

Beth Anne writes words & takes pictures on The Heir to Blair.
You can also find her on the Twitters & Facebook.

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