As I folded laundry tonight, I stumbled across an adorable onesie with “Mommy’s Best Friend” embroidered on the front. And I laughed to myself. See, I’m pretty sure the Baby Union has a contract with clothier Carter’s to print stuff like that. That, and “Mommy Loves Me” and “Daddy’s Little Hero” and “Love My Grandma”.
Because when your kitchen floor is covered an inch deep with 100 or so plastic sandwich baggies or your bathroom floor is one undulating sea of toilet paper, it’s smart to have the perpetrator of such crimes in something which disarms you with cuteness. Like I said, the Baby Union is definitely in on it.
Look, I know I’m one of the lucky ones. My Mother-In-Law retired not long before I got pregnant, and circumstances arranged themselves so she lives with us. And my sweet son’s default setting is happy; that is, when he is not teething or suffering from a horrible virus, or both – as was the case for the long, long, LONG, Easter weekend.
But “Best Friend”? Really? I think, Baby Union, you have overstepped your powers. My husband is my best friend. Thank goodness, because it would be awfully hard for someone who didn’t love me as much as he does to adapt to our insane schedule under this new regime.
“Mommy’s Little Dictator”; “Mommy’s Reason for Waking Every Hour”; “Source of Big Boobness”; “Reason for Childproofing” – any of those would be apt… especially since my amazing little man took his first tentative steps before 8 months.
This mortherhood gig is no joke. I have learned that I have an exhaustion point past which I can no longer make grilled cheese. (I didn’t flip it over because the cheese inside hadn’t melted enough yet.)
My house seems custom-made for killing the tiny 20-lb. explorer I birthed a little over 10 months ago.
And if the house doesn’t do it, wee boy’s ‘drunken sailor just arrived at port’ method of traversing the hard Spanish tile seems at the very least likely to cause me some sort of respiratory distress. I spend so much time holding my breath as he narrowly avoids ricocheting off one cabinet or another that I’m often lightheaded!
My Mom’s birthday is today. And starting a little less than 40 years ago, she undertook this journey of motherhood, first with me; then my two siblings. She managed to survive my tomboyish self, my intrepid brother and my cat-collecting rebellious sister; while allowing us the freedom to get muddy; bring home wounded animals (none of which we managed to keep alive past a day or two – our cats were hell on birds); and play in the snows of Idaho until our snowsuits were saturated – then later the rich red clay of Georgia which ruined most everything it touched. She did it all without a Mother-in-Law living at her home while my Dad worked at a job which took him out of the house over ten hours a day.
I bow to you, Mom, and I thank you for the amazing lessons you gave me growing up. I only hope I can pass them along to my son.