Keepinitreal.com

My last 20 minutes:

So, I’m desperately trying to put my DISGUSTING kitchen in some semblance of order when I realize I really need to go to the bathroom. The problem is that I turn around to find that my daughter has pooped and decided to try and change her own diaper. Now she’s stepped in it and the disgusting kitchen has now upgraded to toxic. So… I spray her down and get that mess cleaned up all without defiling myself.

 

She’s bottomless and content when I (in the bathroom) start this post only to be quickly interrupted by my oldest flying into the bathroom and spitting large amounts of blood into the sink. He is, of course, accompanied by his younger brother who isn’t wanting to miss any of the action and incidentally smashes his half-naked sister behind the door… After getting the blood flow to a reasonable rate I dismiss them to another bathroom to continue the rinse/spit technique.

 

However, in the bathroom middle child was just too tempted but the stash of make-up brushes on the sink and decided that blood makes a good medium for paint-by-color. As you can guess I am now out the only make-up brush I actually use and he is in solitary confinement for a less than discretionary act. So I return to the original bathroom to spray out the cloth diaper and wipe everything down with some Lysol. What do I find?… My oldest had voluntarily aggravated the wound on the top of his mouth because he’s a boy and spitting blood is really cool. I explain that reinjuring himself may prove life threatening to him since it involves me cleaning up another mess… he gets my point.

 

And now, I have rinsed the sink for the third time, flushed all the poo away and am deescalating through the only respectable means afforded mothers in the 21st century… telling the world about it over the internet. 

Advertisements

My Mother

My mom is round. She won’t like it that I say this but it’s true. She’s round like everything good in the world. Like the summer sun, like a big red bouncy ball, like Mrs. Clause on Christmas morning. She is round like a music note and like the softest teddy bear you ever drug all over creation.

 

My mom is true. She might be the last person on this planet on which, sarcasm is utterly lost. She’s true like real butter, homemade cookies and steel. Like everything simple and virtuous you can’t be near her without being home. She is what she is and very little of anything else. And all together… something good.

 

My mom is light. She’s light like bulbs on an evergreen, like first morning sunshine, like yellow glow from a dark window. She’s light like a cold mountain stream, like a song that’s better hummed then sung and like fresh green grass under your toes. Her eyes sparkle for no reason what so ever and her heart is quick to laugh.

 

My mom is love. No really, she doesn’t just love. She is love. She loves everything! She loves breakfast, and Christmas carols and small little trinkets. She loves MUSIC, and children and the smell of pine and fire wood under a blanket of snow. She loves people that are hard to love in the middle of being hard to love. She even loves doing my laundry! It’s like its fun for her.

 

I used to think that if I was like my dad I would be successful. And that’s still true. But my mom… well, she makes everyone around her better without meaning to. Without a critical eye, without a scoff, without a sigh. She loves the little things that make life great and cries over the big things that make life hard. She prays and she sings… and she does my laundry. And I think, that the more I become like her, the better off I (and everyone around me) will be.

 

That’s my mom and I love her.