I’m sitting in the driver’s seat. My two year old is in the back in her car seat, losing her ever loving mind because her shoe came off.
Actually, her shoe didn’t come off, she took it off. Then she threw it onto the floor. Now she’s filled with the burning rage of a thousand suns because she only has one shoe on. She can’t reach the one on the floor to put it back on and she can’t remove the second one and throw it as well.
I’m parked here because I’m meeting a stranger to pick up Girl Scout cookies, well the why isn’t as important as the fact that I’m stuck here for at least ten more minutes. My daughter, who is now screaming for me to drive away, doesn’t care why we’re here. She just wants us to go.
There is a reason why people clean when they grieve. I think part of it is a need to be doing something mundane and normal. Part of it also has to do with wanting to be in control of something, anything, when everything else seems so profoundly out of your control.
The honorary hospice nurse
These thoughts are knocking around in my head as I spend two hours walking through my kitchen rearranging flowers and food and wiping down every surface I can reach despite the size of my ever growing belly.
I wipe, I rearrange, I cry.
That’s been my routine since I woke up today, in this, the first day in my new normal.
We’re snuggled up on the couch together as I write this. Your head resting on my shoulder, your arms intertwined with mine.
You fell down earlier while running through the hallway. I was busy pulling your old bassinet out of the bottom of your closet, as you ran up and down the hallway, yelling with glee. When I reached you, big wet tears were already rolling down your cheeks and you were clutching your knee.
And then there were four
After I soothed your tears away you asked to get into your bassinet. You’ve been too big for it for so long now, but you were still desperate to get back into it. Instead I rocked you, and cooed at you, and told you about the days when you used to fit into it. Pretending to suck your thumb with your eyes half closed you smiled, laughed, and said, “I a baby.” Continue reading
I’m sitting on the toilet, pretending to eat a fake carrot as my toddler stands less than an inch from my bent knees begging me to keep going.
“Eat more, mommy.” She says, and pushes the carrot back to my face. Again I make the “om nom nom” noise and pretend to nibble on the tip. “It’s ice-cream!” She yells, reminding me that I can’t even eat a fake carrot correctly, because now it’s been transformed into a fake ice-cream cone. Get it together, mommy, her face says. Parenting is kind of your job. Continue reading
We were standing in line at the Starbucks inside of our local Target. I had just returned with two cup holders to attach to our shopping cart (for real, whoever came up with that idea, brilliant).
I attached them to our cart while loudly debating which drink I was going to order. I read the calorie and caffeine count of each of them to my husband, something I only care about during pregnancy, and finally made a decision. The man with the patience of a saint listened to all of it without comment before finally speaking up. Continue reading
A few weeks ago my husband had to go into work on a Saturday. There had been a sudden influx of business and some technical issues. He eagerly accepted, as he does most opportunities for overtime, and let me know that he wouldn’t be home that Saturday.
At first I was a little put out. As a stay at home mom the weekend means one thing, and one thing only, help. Continue reading
Well, it’s Christmas week*. I don’t know how that happened (time has lost all meaning since I became a parent), but it did.
If you’re anything like me you are still adding last minute gifts to your Amazon shopping cart and praying frantically to the UPS gods that they make it here on time. And if you’re not anything like me, and all your gifts are purchased, wrapped, and waiting patiently for Christmas Eve so that they can be placed underneath your Christmas tree, well… feel free to keep that information to yourself. Continue reading
I have an unpopular opinion that I’m going to share here with you guys today. And I sincerely hope that the village people of the internet don’t gather with their pitch forks, torches, and try and storm my Barbie Castle in the night.
“Trash Can Jenga”
Guys, motherhood isn’t a job. It’s just not. I can’t tell you how many posts/memes/articles I have read that begin with, “Being a mother is the hardest job I’ve ever had.”
It’s not a job, and I’ll tell you exactly why it isn’t a job. Continue reading
If I had known that it was going to be the last time, I would have taken our picture. One of you falling asleep the way that you had every day of your entire life. Your eyes were usually half closed with a happy smile playing around your lips, all of your focus on nursing.
Your hands were almost always clasped together, as if in some silent prayer. Sometimes you would pull off to laugh, say something to me, or start singing me a song. Sometimes you would just flop back, contented, and drift off to sleep. No matter how it ended, it always started the same, just the two of us in our quiet routine.
Lindsay and I nursing our babies right before my wedding in 2015, photo by Maria Kalitina
Yes, you were almost two, and I was almost five months pregnant, and I was so ready for this part of our relationship to be over, but you were not. It had become both a physical and emotional strain on me in the last month of this pregnancy. I would sit there with you, watching you drift off to sleep, and quietly hope that soon this part of our journey would be done.
And then one day, it just ended. Continue reading