Y’all. There are a few ways you know that motherhood is getting to you.
Permanent dark circles…
Lack of hygiene…
The contents of your purse… (No lie, at this very moment my purse contains the following: one dirty princess sock, a pacifier, several french fries, broken-lidded lip gloss I confiscated from the eldest, a diaper, my wallet, a comb, seven tiny hair bands, and the feet of a hopping mechanical chicken. Just the feet.)
There’s also the fact that you develop magical Mom Instincts. Like, I might not shower for days, but you’d better bet I can tell you the exact location of Maggie’s Bunny. Or I’ll be so exhausted that I’m literally running into walls, but I can catch a falling pacifier like a ninja. Mom Instincts allow me to decipher the deeper meaning behind the make-believe games, interpret whether or not requests for the potty are valid or cheap ploys for a later bedtime. While the rest of your life disintegrates around you, Mom Instincts allow you to remember preschool snack day just in time and recall the location of that one Frozen shirt.
I’d like to point out that, while Mom Instincts make you a rock star in the parenting department, they sometimes overrule all other rational thought and make you less than cool on dates. Just saying.
But I really hit a low point the other day in the “Motherhood is Getting to Me” department.
I need you to know that two thirds of our children have had the stomach flu, all have colds, and one may or may not be teething but he won’t submit to an oral exam and refuses to learn to talk, so…hell if I know. Also, the wordless one has been on a sleeping strike, so basically it’s like living with a cranky mute dictator who demands Wheel of Fortune at one a.m. Except he’s not really mute because he screams. A lot. Just no words. And his older sister is potty training. And I’m trying to take a doula class, and Vin is working like a zillion hours a week, and, and, and. Life is crazy.
I tell you all of this in hopes that maybe it’ll explain my actions, but I really just think I’m off. my. rocker.
So, night before last (but I don’t really know because my days and nights have been messed up since 2009), I got the kids into bed
and foolishly assumed they’d stay there and took the opportunity to go to the bathroom. Alone. For the first time in forever. (No, I’m not sorry I just put that song in your head.)
I went to the bathroom, instinctively put the ironic Pooh potty seat on the toilet, and sat down.
And then I got all surprised and weirded out that the toilet seat was like a kajillion sizes too small, so I kind of freaked out a little bit, but things were already well on their way and I’ve had no control of that biz since, like, 2009, so I had not choice but to keep on keepin’ on. Luckily my aim is spectacular…unlike my brain which has apparently turned into a pile of mush.