I remember a blog post I wrote years ago. We were living in Kentucky then, too. I remember writing about a morning I had to walk the kids into preschool, in sweat pants, shoulders hunched inside a big coat (to hide the fact I hadn't been able to don the proper undergarments thanks to having had to nurse a baby all night), hair unwashed, teeth unbrushed. I was basically a hot mess.
I remember being baffled by the moms who calmly strolled into school, wearing actual outfits, no spit up on their shoulders, hair brushed, makeup on! Who were these people?? And how were they possibly raising preschoolers?
Now I know. Or perhaps it's more accurate to say, now I notice. These put-together moms are only brining in preschoolers, and usually just one. Probably the baby of the family. Preschoolers are somewhat self-sufficient. Even if these moms had elementary aged students, they would be up and off to school well before the preschooler needed attention in the morning.
Now I am the mom walking calmly into school. Now I can wear clean clothes and brush my teeth. Oh happy days!
And yet...
There is a sort of wistfulness in my heart when I pass those young mommas. The ones slumped in their seats just after morning drop off. The ones with the wiggly toddler in the booster seat and the sleeping baby in the bucket carseat in the back. Those moms' mornings last forever. In fact, their days last forever. Then it all starts over again tomorrow. There is no leisurely sleeping in on Saturday. Babies never seem to get that memo. No, these moms just completed one lap of their morning race that likely started at 5 a.m. and won't end until after a midnight feeding.
I used to worry that the moms who seemed to have it all together at preschool might somehow be judging me. Now I know better. Now I know that they remembered what it was like. That they knew how badly I just wanted a nap, a bath, an adult conversation. Oh mommas! I see you, friends. This, too, shall pass.
One day, just around the corner, you will hug your little boy and be able to rest your chin on his head at the same time. You won't be able to pick him up, but you will still cradle him in your heart. And all these exhausting, wonderful, maddening mornings will have been worth it.
One day you'll be able to cook dinner while watching your children play together in the back yard. You'll even be able to join in before it's time to take the food out of the oven. There will be peace at dinner. No one will spill their drink. For real.
Each season is just that. A season. A handful of moments, soon to pass. I know it feels like that old Bill Murray movie Groundhog Day. Every morning feels never-ending and all too familiar. But please hear me when I say it will pass. I know you have dishes in the sink, clothes souring in the washer, unmade beds, crumbs on the table. I remember. But what I hope is that you will take just a few moments to sit and hold that baby. Marvel at those eye lashes, kiss those toes. This, too, shall pass, all too quickly.
I remember being baffled by the moms who calmly strolled into school, wearing actual outfits, no spit up on their shoulders, hair brushed, makeup on! Who were these people?? And how were they possibly raising preschoolers?
Now I know. Or perhaps it's more accurate to say, now I notice. These put-together moms are only brining in preschoolers, and usually just one. Probably the baby of the family. Preschoolers are somewhat self-sufficient. Even if these moms had elementary aged students, they would be up and off to school well before the preschooler needed attention in the morning.
Now I am the mom walking calmly into school. Now I can wear clean clothes and brush my teeth. Oh happy days!
And yet...
There is a sort of wistfulness in my heart when I pass those young mommas. The ones slumped in their seats just after morning drop off. The ones with the wiggly toddler in the booster seat and the sleeping baby in the bucket carseat in the back. Those moms' mornings last forever. In fact, their days last forever. Then it all starts over again tomorrow. There is no leisurely sleeping in on Saturday. Babies never seem to get that memo. No, these moms just completed one lap of their morning race that likely started at 5 a.m. and won't end until after a midnight feeding.
I used to worry that the moms who seemed to have it all together at preschool might somehow be judging me. Now I know better. Now I know that they remembered what it was like. That they knew how badly I just wanted a nap, a bath, an adult conversation. Oh mommas! I see you, friends. This, too, shall pass.
One day, just around the corner, you will hug your little boy and be able to rest your chin on his head at the same time. You won't be able to pick him up, but you will still cradle him in your heart. And all these exhausting, wonderful, maddening mornings will have been worth it.
One day you'll be able to cook dinner while watching your children play together in the back yard. You'll even be able to join in before it's time to take the food out of the oven. There will be peace at dinner. No one will spill their drink. For real.
Each season is just that. A season. A handful of moments, soon to pass. I know it feels like that old Bill Murray movie Groundhog Day. Every morning feels never-ending and all too familiar. But please hear me when I say it will pass. I know you have dishes in the sink, clothes souring in the washer, unmade beds, crumbs on the table. I remember. But what I hope is that you will take just a few moments to sit and hold that baby. Marvel at those eye lashes, kiss those toes. This, too, shall pass, all too quickly.
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