A soft breeze dances around, as I step through the freshly painted back door onto the newly swept deck, the gentle tinkle of wind chimes signaling my arrival. My partner is sprawled out, engrossed in a New York Times crossword puzzle in pen, recovering from his afternoon jog, and he accepts a glass of wine with a smile. “Did you change the air filters again? Didn’t you just do that?” I overhear him chuckle in response to my question, and for some reason, it stings a bit. “What else have I got to do?” he laughs.
I glance over at their garden, feeling a pang of jealousy at her flourishing larkspur. I adore larkspur. And sweet peas. And those perfectly aligned Blackfoot daisies that harmonize beautifully with the mule grass, just enough to make it seem like a happy accident. How can her crepe myrtles grow so quickly?
Meanwhile, a Playmobil dinosaur head has managed to invade my flowerbed. The butterfly bush is now more of a forgotten relic, the roses appear to have caught a cold, and the weeds are winning a battle that only they can see. The Carolina jessamine is half alive, half fading away. Five bags of black mulch have been resting next to the flowerbeds for six weeks, untouched. My attempts at flower spacing are a chaotic disaster, leaving my garden looking well-intentioned but utterly abandoned, overshadowed by more pressing matters indoors.
Suddenly, I’m jolted back to reality by a wet rag thrown by my son. “Mom, can I pee in the birdbath?” he asks—while he’s doing exactly that. My daughter appears outside, blissfully naked with two plastic beads lodged in her nose. And just like that, the chaos erupts. I hear more laughter and wine pouring from across the street, where neighbors are debating if they’re sipping on a Shiraz or a pinot. I wrestle the beads out of my daughter’s nose with my pinkies, as my other fingers are smeared with Play-Doh. My son is now digging something into the ground; is it a toy or something worse? Neighbors’ friends stop by to join in the merriment, and as I finally free my daughter from her nasal predicament, a trickle of blood stains my porch.
What do my neighbors possess that I lack? Time and money. They’re retired. I gaze enviously at their charming blue living room through my window, marveling at its pristine state—no clutter, no dirty diapers, no unfinished paint projects dreaming for a better day. There are no towering laundry piles or stray magazines. Just a clean, peaceful space.
Here’s the truth: I sometimes question if becoming a mother was the right choice. I’d never voice it, though, because it feels wrong. I adore my kids, wished for them, and still do. Yet, there are moments when I think, “Maybe I shouldn’t have had kids.” A thought that feels both true and false simultaneously.
Those feelings gain intensity when I see that retired couple, my envy morphing into guilt—an even worse feeling. If guilt were a stock, moms would be the major shareholders.
I reminisce about my pre-parenthood days: late-night talks with my partner about music, honeymooning in Italy, and indulging in secret Gilmore Girls marathons over takeout. I dream about a future where I can read an entire book in one night or escape to a far-off anniversary destination, free of the chaos that now defines us. I see us now—exhausted, shirts stained, struggling to throw together dinner. I know these days will pass, or at least that’s what everyone says.
I head inside, needing to figure out the best weapon for cleaning up blood. As I step through the front door, my son leaps from the top of the staircase, eyes gleaming like the plastic dragon he’s clutching. “Catch me! Hjeeeeh!” he yells mid-air.
He comes hurtling towards me, and in that moment, everything slows down. It’s like watching a bowling ball slip from someone’s fingers, comical until you remember the thud it will make when it lands. He crashes into me, our bodies intertwining like a tangle of limbs. I have this instinct to protect him, to absorb any impact. I twist and drop, using my back as a makeshift airbag to soften our fall. We land, his head resting on my chest, a moment of silence enveloping us.
“Mom?” he finally asks, breaking the stillness.
“Yes?” I respond, waiting. He thinks for a moment and then whispers, “I know what I want for a pet. I’ve finally figured it out!”
I dream of a dog like Nana from Peter Pan, happily helping with the kids while I indulge in a long bath. “A termite!” he exclaims with sheer joy.
“Won’t a termite eat our house?” I can’t help but marvel at the calmness in my voice.
“No, Mom! I can train him!” he insists, still lying there, unbothered.
His arms wrap around my neck, a rare moment of affection that I cherish. We lie there, wrapped up in each other, though it’s probably only been ten seconds.
I know that one day, I’ll reach that beautiful, relaxing stage of life. But for now, I’m right here—on the front lines of parenting.
For more insights on the journey of parenthood, check out this post on home insemination. If you’re considering starting a family, Make a Mom has some great resources on at-home insemination kits. Additionally, you can find helpful information on donor insemination that can guide you through the process.
Summary:
This reflective piece depicts the daily chaos and challenges of parenting while contrasting the author’s life with that of her retired neighbors. It captures the blend of love and uncertainty that comes with motherhood, illustrating moments of joy and frustration. The narrative emphasizes the complexity of feelings surrounding parenthood and the longing for simpler days, all while celebrating the beautiful chaos of family life.