To-Do List Undone

Its never enough even when its too much

The smell of your head, hair soft to the touch. 

I’ve forgotten the screaming from when you were awake. 

I’ve forgotten the chores you made me forsake. 

All I see is an angel where my opponent once stood, 

The light of my life, all gentle and good. 

Did I really sigh in frustration when I heard you cry?

Did I prioritize tasks when you were nearby? 

Who was the person who dared put you down

For the sake of the laundry, that stupid old clown?

It couldn’t have been me when I love you so

That I sit right here even when I could go. 

To-do lists still waiting; interrupted, half-done

But all I can do is sit and watch my dear one.

Watch you snore in your bed, mouth slightly a-gape

Making no use of the time I have tried to escape. 

I want to bottle each moment and save them for later,

When I’m less stressed, but time is a traitor. 

It never sits still, much like these children of mine

Who keep on growing and changing with time. 

I wouldn’t change it, each stage is a gift, 

But wouldn’t it be nice if I wasn’t on shift?

No more working, just games to be played 

With these wonderful children, the people I’ve made. 

Don’t give up on me when I’ve had a bad day,

I’m sorry. And thank you. Its all I can say. 

I love you, Tallulah, Evie and Finn. 

You make this a life I’m thrilled  to be in. 

Tired like a Mother

 I feel so used up by the end of each day. I have no more patience, no more energy, no more brain power. My body has been a playground all day, pulled on, poked, scratched, pushed against, fed on. My skin is sore from constant touches, but so is my soul, my emotional capacity, even my aura feels totally and completely touched out. Overstimulated, overwhelmed, overworked, over everything. The noise has been too loud, too constant, too worrying. Who hit who? What show can we all agree on? Is that the baby in the bedroom, waking up from a nap? Let's play the song one more time and then be done. Is there any chance anyone wants to go outside and be loud out there so mommy can have five minutes of silence? My brain is full of lists, groceries that need to be purchased, chores that need to be done. We just had a four day weekend, did he really not get to the lawn? When is the package with summer clothes arriving? Do we already need more diapers? I really need to go through everyone's drawers and pull out the things that don't fit... I'm always playing catch up. I'm so tired. I'm so drained. I'm so empty.

But also full. I am full of love. I'm full of kisses, and answers to questions, and songs. I'm full to overflowing for these tiny amazing crazy-makers. I have time for one more book, one more song, one more kiss, one more prayer over the heads of my sleepy-eyed babies. I could get up one more time for one more last minute need. Because there always is. One more request for water. One more precious snuggle. One more question about the mysteries of the universe.

And when the new baby, baby number three, daughter number two, my sweet and precious angel, needs to be snuggled and fed at some ungodly hour of the night, I will have more milk, more snuggles, I will lean in to smell that little head, even though I've sniffed it a thousand times today. And when the older two come in at the crack of dawn, while my husband gets up to get ready for his day at work, I will have arms enough for all three of them, one more hour of sleepy snuggles until they begin their day of making requests and demands. 

I will survive this part of life. And I know I will look back on it with fondness and longing and exhaustion and gratitude. I will mourn the loss of the littlest phase, missing the babies and toddlers who have sprouted to children and teens and adults. There will never be enough. And yet it is exactly enough. And too much. The universe is packed into a marble. And I keep finding it in the pockets of my kids' clothing before processing a thousand loads of laundry. 

Stickers and Rainbows

I have always been a maximalist

Covering my walls in the art that I love

Piling mismatched pillows high

Shelves of collections, 

Tiny treasures, stunning sparkles, and nifty knick-knacks

Each a tiny part of my personality

Each a little spark of joy. 

I fell in love with bursts of color young 

And I never let go.

Did I pick orange, or did orange pick me?

I was always going to be myself

100% original, the good and the bad, the flaws and flairs 

Of a girl who mostly knew her mind.

I'm still that way.

Each wall a different color.

Each room a testimony to my love of rainbows.

Art heavy. Candle rich. Figures for the eye to see. 

I make no apologies for my decorative taste. 

Its not everyone's cup of tea, 

But that has never bothered me.

So why do I struggle so with everything else?

I want to be thin, and quiet and digestible

I want to be easy and agreeable and suggestible.

I want no one to have a problem with who I am

I want to be everyone else's biggest fan.

I don't know how to just be me 

and let go of everyone else's negativity.

Dependapotamus

 Dependapotamus. I heard the term pretty early in in my marriage to my military husband. Stuck in Guam with very little contact home, completely dependent on a man I had only known for a year and a half over Skype, never having lived on my own before… hearing a term that completely encapsulated who I was and what I did was horrifying. I didn’t work. I had no car, developed a crippling case of social anxiety, and no desire to leave the house without this stranger I married. I had no kids, which made my status even lower in the eyes of every responsible human on the planet. I literally stayed home all day everyday with nothing to do but eat, tidy, process the occasional basket of laundry… eventually we got a dog and I worked on training him but there were still many hours in the day lost to binging tv shows and worrying.

   My husband said it with such ease… casually mocking this hypothetical Hippopotamus-sized leech on society with his buddy, never once stopping to consider that I, his wife, the woman he promised to honor and cherish forever… not only fit the criteria perfectly, but couldn’t escape the weight of guilt the label carried with it. I was this person. I still am. I didn’t want to be someone worthy of being mocked. I didn’t want to be a fat, selfish, lazy blight on society. When I tried to bring my insecurity, my fear, my disgust that this is how the world must see me… when I tried to say all this to my husband, he half-heartedly tried to reassure me that I was most certainly NOT a dependapotamus. But still… the guilt remained.  

   It wasn’t until a few weeks ago, when I was visiting my sister for my birthday, that I finally felt free from the burden of this rank. I casually dropped the term in front of my sisters, self-mocking, but drenched with insecurity, they were both horrified. My younger sister said, “What a horrible word! You are NOT a dependapotamus. But you know what? No one ever called that is.” This struck me cold. I realized that she was right. No woman married to a military man, stuck at home in some foreign place, far from family and friends, possibly raising children, DESERVED to be called that horrible name. Here I was, terrified of being lumped in with some disgusting hippo-like creature, mooching of the hard-working, upstanding military men… when they probably all felt the exact same way. Normal women. Married and struggling to feel worthy. Riddled with insecurities. I am not better than them. I am not different. Because we are all supporting our men. Cleaning houses. Raising children. Doing the invisible work of stay-at-home mothers and homemakers. 

  I am not a dependapotamus. But I identify with every other woman who has ever worried that she was one. And if I am a dependapotamus, than my husband is too because he depends on me just as much as I depend on him.