There’s this idea that mothers- and, especially, mothers to many- are (or aspire to be) multitasking, Martha Stewart-esque, model citizens. Sometimes it’s true. And sometimes, as with any job, it’s just not true. Not even a little bit. At all.
Lately, I’ve been hearing from strangers a lot of (earnest? Politely conversational?) how do you DO it all?
(Disclaimer: This is not a humblebrag, nor is it a self-congratulatory pat on the back at my daily successes. What’s the opposite of that? A self-deprecating poke in the eye at my daily failures? Yes. Let’s go with that.)
And we’ve all been there- you see a Mama in the grocery store, juggling a cart’s worth of sticky hands and whining mouths. Your first instinct (and mine, too) is to exclaim, “Well, you’ve certainly got your hands full!” And it’s true. She probably does. She’ll most likely then do something socially relatable and funny, like rolling her eyes or shrugging in an exaggerated “I don’t even know where I live anymore” or perhaps even offering to hand one child over to you. (Normal reactions like that.)
But long after everyone’s purchased their Fritos and gargantuan crates of Scotch tape (no?), the Mama sometimes returns home and repeats that shrugged gesture. To herself. For the rest of the day. Because sometimes there are days so excruciatingly maddening, so ridiculously dirty, and so unbelievably thankless that not only do you not even know where you live anymore, you no longer WISH to.
What started as a societal caricature (overwhelmed, Gallic shrug) somehow turns into a nervous tic in the privacy of one’s own home. Neither Baby Blues nor Family Circus has created a comic strip adequately able to mine the comedic gold inherent in a mother freaking out in a locked bathroom. (Spoiler: Tisn’t as funny.)
And then sometimes those days become weeks. And those weeks become second and third children. And you think to yourself- yep, this little phase is pretty darned hard. But it’ll pass, I’ll find my feet, and things will just sorta settle, you know?
Sometimes this phase takes so long to come to pass that you wonder if perhaps finding your feet isn’t the big problem. If perhaps all that time you should’ve been trying to find a nap or a therapist or a bar of soap.
Or maybe your New Normal just involves being chronically late, perpetually unshowered, and prone to self-pitying crying jags.(Lemme just tell you, few things make me cry like thinking about how random crying jags might be my new normal. Aaaand, repeat.)
Around this time, some well-meaning soul will usually offer up the second gem of “this too shall pass.” Little kids get bigger. Babies rarely need to be diaper-changed into adulthood. And soon your services will barely be required at all.
This does not have the desired effect on the snot-covered subconscious of the overtired mother that you might expect.
Then there are the moments- like yesterday morning- where you/I have a legitimate out-of-body experience. One second you’re halting the scrambled eggs process to heft a baby onto your hip, then suddenly you’re staring at samesuch baby with a look of adoration, like- isn’t he so cute? Then WHAM, you’re taking a mental step back and narrowing your eyes at these three little children and thinking about the fact that you- YOU- have a mortgage and drive a minivan full of people and no one even thinks that’s a little bit unsafe for a high schooler to be doing and how did this happen, when you were three you wanted to be a dancer on Solid Gold.
Then you/I firmly come back to the here and now because, whether or not your subconscious believes in your current situation, no one in this kitchen will eat burnt scrambled eggs SO GET YOUR HEAD IN THE GAME, FLYNN.
Normal stuff like that.
So, to answer the question- how do I do it all? By sometimes “doing it all” for roughly three and a half minutes of each day, and then promptly not doing anything of the sort for twelve straight hours, unless by “doing it all” you also count the crucial activities of wiping only one spot of the kitchen table (repeatedly) and sitting on the floor while eating cereal off of the baby’s tray.
Bonus if people are crawling on you for either activity.
So to you- if you’re also currently experiencing this inability to “do it all” (or to remember if that’s what you had set out to do in the first place)- and to me (because…what was the question?) YOU ARE DOING JUST FINE.
There are, sadly, no prizes given out ’round here. Unless you count the “prizes” of raising competent members of society, keeping them free of tetanus, and encouraging them to eat at least a few of the greens on their plate.
Strive for that, you/me. And it’ll be okay.
But seriously, stop eating from the baby’s highchair. You’re better than that.
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