Has just not worked out.
At all.
It’s the kind of night where the house is a freaking pig sty and the children have been sick and loud and fighting all day and I’m behind on my work and it’s been dark and muggy all day and I’m crampy and overtired and just want to go to bed.
You know, when I’m out and about, I often start chatting with older people about my kids and they almost always tell me the same thing, something along the lines of “Cherish these days, you’ll miss them when they’re gone.”
And no doubt that’s true. I’ll miss the chubby little hands and the kisses and hugs and cute little things they say and watching them play and laugh and grow.
But what I really wish they’d tell me is:
Don’t worry, you’ll make it out okay. One day you’ll get enough sleep and you won’t have to try and figure out how to clean a mixture of tadpole food and shampoo out of the cracks in the hardwood floor and you’ll be able to eat your breakfast without having to wipe a dirty bottom clean first.
You won’t have to try to wolf down a crappy gas station sandwich while sitting in a parking lot trying tune out the kids yelling in the back of the van so that you can drive to the next half dozen places without your hands shaking.
You’ll be able to pick out clothes without worrying if your toddler can pull down the front of your shirt or the back of your skirt and flash everyone.
You will still be creative and fun and come out of this stronger than ever and all your hard work will have paid off and you’ll be glad that you gave so freely of yourself. You will not lose yourself no matter how many times it feels like you have.
I guess what I wish is that instead of telling me what I’ll be missing sometimes somebody could tell me what I have to look forward to.
So that’s why I’m telling myself.
