I wondered what it would sound like if I described the mundane, annoying parts of my Mommy day with a poetic flare, or described them in beauty rather than the actual voice of frustration. Sounds something like this.
It taunts me, the stray, dirty Dora cup, being unable to remove its top after my spouse’s strong hand has secured it forever. I can not forget that inside it’s warm belly rests chocolate milk, and my heart cries out in frustration for the abomination that is developing there. I am all too aware that when it is finally liberated, it will not be well.
I dreamt in my toil of a satisfying treat for my palate to enjoy, something to fill the cavernous belly down below. I envisioned a grand sandwich made of peanut butter and jelly, and knew it would certainly fulfill the calling to cease my hunger. With joy I opened the cabinet reaching for the holy grail of ground legume, adorned with the words “creamy Jiff.” But alas, my dreams would be shattered in short time too, for as I removed the spinning top I discovered only emptiness before me. Curses! I could not fathom such reasoning, to place an empty container upon the shelf. I wept inside. My belly growled in anger.
All the day long I step upon crumbs, crumbling and crunching under sock clad foot. I beseech to the sky, “why is it so?” I know I just swept but a moment ago. I stare at the dustpan, so full with its bounty, collected after just one single meal which I served unaware that after its conclusion I would deposit it whole into the awaiting belly of the trash.
Is there anything more beautiful or more touching to a mother’s soul than nourishing her infant from her own abundant breast? Rocking a tiny babe, nestled in your arm as a soft lullaby is hummed, and they allow the sweet milk to lull them to sleep. Serenity has never known its equal. In contrast, a walking toddler continuously pulling upon her mother’s blouse in bold, unrelenting pursuit of scant milk in a shriveled up bosom is far from serene.
The odor it caught me unaware, wafting from the bottom of the active angel in my lap. I knew in an instant the source of such an olfactory offense. I tried in vain to ignore the task ahead, the daunting calling to rid the atmosphere of such a scent, but I understood it could not wait. With each bouncing movement upon my lap I envisioned the flattening and smearing of digested edibles that was taking place in the absorbent material below. I swallowed my pride and cleaned buttocks as if it were a favored past time I longed to complete.
So many times the words have exited my lips, “Be nice to your sister.” So simple, so plain. I cannot comprehend how it could possibly be misunderstood for anything other that the direction it is. Yet I find the young lady of three wrapping a balloon string around her sister’s small neck. It is in these moments of preschool avoidance of my authority that I fear I might combust or surely take a not-so-innocent life. But I do not. Corporal punishment is threatened and we begin again.
“I can not find it anywhere!” she cries, yet within mere moments of looking with open eyes I am able to locate the forever lost item. Motherly vision is surely a gift from God.
The piercing cries break the closest semblance to silence the house has known and unsurprisingly just as I have taken the audacity to relieve myself on my porcelain thrown of solitude, if only for a moment. I rush to the aide of dying children, trickling a trail of unmentionable liquid as I go. But I find no blood, nor bodies scattered about; nothing which could explain the raucous that proceeded my jaunt. “Are you pooping?” I ask the youngest, as if this explains all. The young lady of three turns suspiciously away. Sometimes there are no answers to be had.
Crying. Insistent crying. Whining, thrashing about. Tugging at my trouser leg because my solid embrace can cure all ailments. Why do they cry, so much more today than yesterday? Pointless questions I cry to myself, without answer than can be found. Teething? Illness? The illustrious “stage” they’re going through? It matters not for as soon as one cause is determined another factor invades and upsets the sanity. Some days you must just hold them. All day. I shall miss this one day I am aware, but for now I miss pooping alone. And in one sitting.