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Motherhood: The Beautiful Chaos
There’s a sticky film of lip balm glistening on the playroom window, and the scent of strawberries fills the air. On the floor, a flattened eos lip balm lies abandoned, its pink hue coated in cat fur—my favorite, now a casualty of toddler antics.
Mega Bloks trucks soar through the air, defying my repeated pleas of “Please stop throwing things!” My youngest sports a sizable bump on his head from an earlier mishap, and the shrill cries echoing in the room might as well be a siren.
In the time-out chair, another toddler wails with such intensity that it makes my throat ache. A bruise is forming on my thigh from the battle of getting him settled. Meanwhile, a different toddler is in full meltdown mode, tossing Hot Wheels at the wall, which is chipping the fresh paint—paint we’ll be charged for if we don’t fix it, since this is a new apartment.
Outside, a stack of boxes remains unpacked on the patio, remnants of our recent move. Most of it is just kid stuff. And in the kitchen, a broken food processor sits on the countertop after my ambitious attempt at homemade almond butter this morning (so much for the “crunchy mom” label). There’s a clump of crushed almonds in the trash and a ten-dollar bill gone to waste, as those nuts are pricey.
An empty sippy cup lurks in the living room with a no-spill valve dislodged from the lid, likely thanks to a toddler’s repeated floor throws. A sour odor permeates the house, and when I inquire about the spilled milk, one child just giggles and scampers away. Ants march along the bathroom floor, pilfering the bits of granola bar that my boys have scattered everywhere despite my countless reminders to keep snacks in the kitchen.
The fridge holds an 18-count egg carton with zero eggs remaining, and there’s a cookie recipe on the counter that requires two. Two inconsolable boys are now in hysterics because I promised we’d bake cookies today.
A baby gate lies abandoned on the floor, and one toddler has somehow found his way into the litter box. Yes, there’s cat waste in his mouth. In his mouth! Litter is strewn across the floor, sticking to my socks. Although the vacuum is tucked away in the closet, it’s out of action due to a full filter and an overflowing trash can.
I’m muttering a fair share of expletives under my breath—let’s just say, there are a lot of them. Fruit flies buzz around, even though we have no fruit left, while the toddlers scream for bananas. A headache pulses in my temples, synced to the relentless jingle of the Daniel Tiger theme song.
Only 57 minutes remain until Daddy is home… 56 minutes and 54 seconds… 56 minutes and 48 seconds…
My eyes burn, feeling as if I’m at an eye exam, enduring that puffy air blast. I want nothing more than to close them, but the test isn’t over yet. And I’m definitely being tested—stress, anger, chaos, frustration, and utter exhaustion swirl around me.
Tears begin to spill—so many tears. They cling to my eyelashes, blurring my vision of the chaos around me. They stream down my cheeks, soaking my hair that’s been tugged loose by little hands during storytime. Tears pool on my sweatpants, right next to a glob of yogurt flung at me during lunch.
These tears should be cleansing, but they feel more like a hurricane, relentless and overwhelming. Yet, at that moment—two slender arms wrap around me, and not in the usual toddler way. A small, perfect set of lips puckers toward me, and two beautiful hazel eyes—mirroring my own—gaze back with tender concern.
“I love you, Mama,” a sweet voice whispers, and in that instant, it feels like everything else fades away.