Snapshot of a Mom

Motivated by sun and optimism that the cold days are past us, I begin digging through drawers and root out sweaters, long sleeve shirts, and pants, and I pair them down to a few ‘just in case’ items. I pull out the bins of hand-me-downs and marvel at the difference a year has made. Growth spurts caused favorite t-shirts to shrink, and they now get tucked away in storage. One of my children catches me in the act, and tears flow as he laments passing down a shirt two sizes too small for him. I attempt to console him as I carefully refold and tuck away the outgrown items, separating the boys’ superhero shirts from my daughter’s frilly dresses, and save them all for a younger sibling or an eventual donation. Seven bulging totes sit in the living room as proof of my labor.

With stainless steel doors flung wide open, I stand in front of the refrigerator. Light illuminates my face, and the cold air drifts forward as I stare into the space taking stock of the items lining glass shelves. The ground beef needs to be cooked, but how? Shepherds pie, beef with broccoli, spaghetti and meatballs? I close the doors and move around the kitchen, looking through the pantry and in cabinets to figure out what meal I have both the ingredients and stamina to make.

I stand next to our tall table, leaning over, my elbow on its hard surface and my chin resting in my hand. My oldest son sits in a chair next to me, working on his written assignment. The writing portion of our day consistently involves whining that snowballs into disrespect and then discipline with more whining. I cover my mouth with the palm of my hand as I try to manage the frustration that we both feel. Distance learning has gone well, except for this part. I push forward, trying to teach through my anger and his tears. We survive, and his writing, whether he is aware or not, sees consistent improvement. I’m hopeful that one day he’ll write and it won’t feel like pulling teeth.

The grey glider is squishy and worn from three years of use, yet still glides silently. I sit in the dark nursery, lit only by the sparse glow of a feeding pump and a faint trickle of moonlight through the window. I rock our youngest as he nurses and kicks his legs, now long enough to hang past the armrest of the chair. My fingers brush his cheek, and when I pause, he nudges me with his small hands to start again. I sing Baby Mine, the lullaby I’ve sung for more than seven years to our children beginning when they were tiny seeds of hope in my growing belly. This youngest baby pulls away, smiles at me, and starts babbling; I smile back and remind him that it’s “night-night” time. He nurses more until I feel his body relax in my arms, finally accepting that he’s ready to sleep. I lay him in his crib, tucked beneath a fleece blanket, stroke his cheek one final time, and whisper, “I love you,” as I quietly leave the room.

Armed with an Allen and monkey wrench, I examine our daughter’s wheelchair and begin unscrewing pieces, adjusting the back for the height of our little lady who’s growing like a weed.

It’s the middle of the night, and I hear the muffled shutting of my door and footfalls across carpet as one of our children sneaks into our bedroom and crawls between my husband and me, wiggling under the covers and snuggling in for the night.

I walk through the house and nudge some toys out of my way while stopping to bend over and pick up others. My oft-repeated question, “Where did these toys come from?” always answered by a shrug or placing the blame elsewhere.

These are snapshots of my life as a mom. Some that I expected, others that I didn’t. Some are more heartwarming than I ever could have imagined, others more maddening than I had thought possible. My unique motherhood journey is filled with experiences that mothers have known for generations. I am not the first mom to wring her hands in frustration or yell at the absurdity of raising children, and I am not the last mother to look at the faces of her children and wonder if a heart can contain so much love, or if it might burst. I am thankful and honored to take my place among women who have loved, cared for, carried, cried over, and sacrificed for the children who hold their hearts.