A gentle breeze sweeps through the scene. I step out of the freshly painted back door onto a newly swept deck, my arrival heralded by a cheerful set of wind chimes. My partner sits across the way, engrossed in the New York Times crossword puzzle, pen in hand, unwinding after his afternoon run, as he accepts a glass of wine from me. He chuckles, “Did you change the air filters again? Didn’t you just do that?” Those words sting, echoing in my mind. “What else do I have to do?” he laughs.
I glance at their garden, a wave of envy washing over me as I admire her flourishing larkspur, a flower I adore. Sweet peas and rows of Blackfoot daisies harmoniously mingle with the mule grass that seems to have grown in perfect alignment with her home’s stone wall. How do her crepe myrtles grow so quickly?
In stark contrast, a Playmobil dinosaur head has invaded my flowerbed, the butterfly bush has lost its charm, and the roses appear to be wilting. Weeds are thriving in a battle I didn’t sign up for, while my Carolina jessamine is half alive, half giving up. Five bags of black mulch sit unopened beside my flowerbeds, remnants of good intentions lost in the chaos. My flower spacing faltered midway down the row, resulting in a comical mishmash of effort, ultimately overshadowed by more urgent matters inside.
Suddenly, I’m jolted back to reality by a wet rag flung at me by my son. “Mom, can I pee in the birdbath?” he asks, already doing so. My daughter emerges outside, completely naked, with two plastic beads crammed up her nose. The chaos begins. I hear more wine pouring across the street, accompanied by a lively debate about whether it’s Shiraz or Pinot. I wrestle the beads from my daughter’s nose, my fingers stained with Play-Doh. Meanwhile, my son is digging a hole—what could it be, a toy or something more unsavory? Neighbors join in laughter and cocktails while I’m left with blood spewing from my daughter’s nose onto the porch.
What do my neighbors possess that I lack? Time and resources. They are retired, and I can’t help but gaze at their pristine blue living room from my window, marveling at the complete lack of clutter. No trash, no wet diapers, no half-finished paint projects, and no mountains of laundry or magazines. Their space is free of sticker books and empty boxes—a picture of tranquility.
And yet, I grapple with doubts about motherhood. I would never voice those thoughts out loud, as they feel wrong, untrue. Of course, I love my children, wanted them, and still do. Still, I sometimes wonder, “Maybe I shouldn’t have had kids.” It’s a paradox that weighs heavily on my heart.
Those feelings are fueled by a glimpse of that retired couple, my envy morphing into guilt, a far worse emotion. If guilt were a currency, mothers would undoubtedly be the wealthiest.
I think back to life before parenthood—late-night conversations with my partner about music, honeymooning on the Italian coast, and secret Gilmore Girls marathons over takeout. I dream of the future, envisioning nights spent reading an entire book or enjoying an anniversary trip beyond Sea World. Today, however, we look worn out, our shirts stained, struggling to prepare a meal. Everyone assures me that these days will pass, but I can’t be sure.
As I step inside, I’m met with my son launching himself from the staircase, eyes wide with excitement, clutching a plastic dragon. “Catch me! Hjeeeeh!” he cries mid-air. The sight of his beautiful head hurtling toward me is both hilarious and terrifying, reminiscent of a bowling ball slipping from someone’s grasp, soaring through the air.
He collides with me, our bodies merging in a tangle of limbs. In that fleeting moment, I become an athlete, channeling all my energy into catching him. I remember the ultrasound photo, the first car ride home from the hospital, and the weight of his sleepy head. I would do anything to absorb the impact myself, wishing to protect him at all costs. As we tumble, I brace myself, landing on my padded back, and we come to rest together, his head on my chest—a return to our earliest moments.
“Mom?” he murmurs, breaking the silence.
“Yes?”
He pauses, then whispers, “I know what I want for a pet. I’ve finally figured it out!”
I imagine a loving dog like Nana from Peter Pan caring for the kids while I relax in a bubble bath.
“A termite!” he exclaims with pride and imagination.
“Won’t a termite eat our house?” I ask, marveling at my calm tone.
“No, Mom! I can train him!” he insists, still nestled against me.
His arms wrap around my neck, a rare gift from him, a moment I’ve earned and cherish. We stay like this, absorbing the warmth, but perhaps it was only ten seconds.
I know I will eventually reach that stage of life where I can coast, free from the front lines. But for now, I’m fully immersed in the beautiful chaos of parenting.
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Summary:
This piece offers a heartfelt glimpse into the chaotic yet beautiful journey of parenthood, filled with moments of self-doubt, cherished memories, and the love that binds a mother to her children. The author reflects on the challenges of balancing the demands of family life, longing for the simplicity of pre-parenthood days, yet ultimately embracing the joyful chaos.