The Irony of Motherhood
Here’s the craziest thing about babies/kids:
You can take off two days from work (Thursday and Friday) to stay home with your sick kid. She can be super fussy and grumpy and give you hell when you try to put her down for a nap or bed. She can majorly test your patience as you try to force feed her the antibiotics that she was prescribed to treat her fourth (!!) ear infection. She can vomit up the entire dosage or refuse to swallow it altogether because that’s how much she hates it. She can be extra clingy and cry every time you try to put her down, leaving you seriously exhausted and unable to get anything done. And you can start to wonder how you ever stayed home with her full-time (and then feel guilty for even thinking that, much less writing it on your blog). You can start to think that there is in fact such a thing as a weekend that’s too long. And there comes that guilt again!
And then a funny thing happens. You find yourself on a Tuesday morning, alone and sitting in your very quiet office. And instead of enjoying the solitude and freedom to go to the restroom uninterrupted or eat with both hands, you find yourself missing that little face. That little head that threw itself back in multiple crying fits, but that also snuggled up against your chest when she was tired. Missing those little hands that pushed away food and medicine but also clapped at absolutely nothing and recently learned to wave. Missing that voice that screamed out in pain but then two minutes later babbled sweet nothings.
Missing it all, because even in the midst of the fussiness and the not feeling good, there were moments and things like these:
Sitting out in the driveway waiting for daddy to get home.
Smiles so big you’d never know that she was home sick from school.
Dirty little fingers that have been digging in the cracks of the driveway.
A lawn mower ride with daddy.
A sleepy smile.
Her first time swimming in grandma and grandpa’s big pool.
Exploring the water.
Loving every second of it.
Marveling at “prune-y” fingers.
Visiting with friends.
Family photo ops.
And before you know it, you’re racing through the day, counting down the minutes until you can see that little person again. Every tantrum-throwing, car seat-crying, medicine-spitting inch of her.
Now explain that to me.