I’m sitting here at the computer, it’s 10 in the morning and my daughter is sleeping off last night’s all-night party. By that, I mean she is sleeping off getting up every 30 minutes running to the bathroom to throw up from some sort of stomach bug. Sounds like fun, right?
Truthfully, I think my favorite moment of my evening was when she sat up and projectile vomited all that goodness straight across the bed covering, the blankets, pillows, and my upper half with all that sweet warmness. I mean, I am living the life.
As I lay there, covered in partially digested yummy-ness, yelling for my spouse to come and please bring towels (I truly believe that this is the one legitimate excuse for yelling at the top of your lungs in the middle of the night) I began to laugh. I looked at my daughter and watched as her look of horror slipped into a smile. (A smile that was immediately followed by more terror and another round of awesome up-chuck.) As she finished and I held her hair back, (still fully covered in slime, mind you) I started laughing anew. Because really, what else are you going to do? The fact that up to this point she had made it to the bathroom every time, was a mere miracle in itself.
I’m not sure if it was right then, or if it was a few minutes later as I stood under the water, rinsing the chunks from my clothes and body, that I really embraced the love. These are the times that truly spell motherhood for me. It’s the midnight hour, when you are covered in sludge, and are utterly spent that your superhero powers come out. It doesn’t seem to matter how exhausted you are, how sore your muscles are, how depleted your brainpower is. You hear that first sound of a child about to retch, and all of that disappears. You grow wings of care and compassion, and love that you forgot you possessed.
I attended a woman’s conference this weekend and had come home ready to become more. To chase after my dreams while being the most patient and amazing mother I had ever been. But, reality came back and bit me hard.
Instead of working on my dreams I will be washing partially digested food particles out of my bedding, shampooing my mattress, and getting down and dirty disinfecting my bathroom. Not quite the dreams I had in mind.
Mommas, I can’t even. This is it. This is the grudge, the reality. We are there at every gross moment, every breakdown, every illness, because we are the only ones who can.
Not only that, but somehow we pull the weeds of the present away, and find ways to make them laugh in the middle of their pain. We pull them close and hold them, knowing they are covered in disgusting things. We are the ones our children trust implicitly to see them in their most vulnerable moments, and love them the same. And I, for one, wouldn’t have it any other way.