Charlotte, after a brief foray into our 1980s kiddie pool, goes inside to change her clothes. Again. She's worn 3 swimsuits, 2 shirts, 1 dress and at least 3 tutus today. Changing is her favorite pastime and, since her sister is outside in the pool and I can't leave her, I'm in no position to put up a fight.
So I hang with the wee one outside while her sister proceeds with her day-long fashion show.
Sister comes out in wool black-and-white polka dot tights and a navy striped long-sleeve shirt. It's 85 degrees.
Jesus, take the wheel.
After an anything-but rational conversation with this threenager, she acquiesces and returns inside for something more appropriate. She comes out in a bathing suit (perfect) with a snack cup filled to the brim of bunny cookies. Which she got from the cupboard after moving the stool, opening a brand new package and pouring its contents into her favorite purple snack cup. I don't even want to know what the kitchen looks like.
Serenity now.
My daughters are hilarious. And crazy. And busy. And fun. And hard and challenging and (what's a nice word for pains in the asses?) spirited. I wouldn't trade them in, I really wouldn't. I am freaking obsessed with them.
But sometimes, I wish I could take a break. A REAL break. Not a "wander around Target while they're with the sitter" break.
Mother's Day was wonderful this year. There were flowers, a new necklace, a coffee date with a friend and, most of all, there was my wonderful family. But I had a moment in the middle of the night (my youngest cried and I had to run down and help her find her pacifier) where I realized there really are no days off in this whole "being a mother" thing.
That's not to say there aren't kid-free vacations in my future (Barcelona, I'm looking at you!) or lazy Sundays when are kids more independent and sleep past 7am.
What I mean is that, there is no off switch. There is no "time out." You can't turn off The Motherhood.
The Motherhood isn't a job. The Motherhood is a state of being. No, a WAY of being. To turn it off would be a departure from myself. From who I have become and from who my children have made me. The Motherhood is my most significant lens through which I see this world. It's permanent, there's no going back.
There is no off switch because I will never stop caring that Harper needs help finding her paci at 2am. Or that Charlotte tries to con me into letting her eat bunny cookies for dinner. There is no off switch for the love. There is no turning off The Motherhood.
I find myself in the throes of The Motherhood when I read the news or when I see other children. From my neighbor's precocious toddler with ice cream all over her face to the image of the Syrian mother carrying her baby in a donated Ergo carrier, my heart cannot stop being a mother. I see these faces and these children and my heart opens up to them, even though they are not mine.
Because, you can't turn off The Motherhood.
And it's HARD. I sometimes wish I could care less because it would require less of me. I wouldn't be haunted by stories of hungry babies or abused children. I wouldn't so wholeheartedly believe that there is no such thing as other people's children. It would be so much easier that way.
Ah, but The Motherhood. It won't let me care less. It won't turn off. It won't go away.
And you know what? Thank God. Because I don't want to miss any of this. The fashion shows, the middle-of-the-night stirrings, the ice cream faces and even the pain in the world. Because to turn away from some of it is to turn away from it all.
***If you are looking for a way to care for children, consider The Compassion Collective, a new initiative that uses no donation money for overhead, aids Syrian refugees and homeless youth in our country. Started by Cheryl Strayed, Glennon Melton, Rob Bell, Brene Brown and Elizabeth Gilbert, it's the organization I'm choosing to give to in this crazy time.
