On the days when everything feels just right, I creatively fend off imaginary creatures. I can persuade my kids that our home is coated in enchanted Monster-repellent paint or that the Monster is just a tiny dancer in a tutu, belting out “Puff the Magic Dragon.”
But then there are those other days, when frustration bubbles over, and I snap at my child for the fiftieth time, “Can you please just go to bed already?!” That’s the last thing they hear before drifting off to sleep.
On the best days, everyone looks presentable—even me. My kids are tidy, smelling fresh, with clipped nails and neatly combed hair, free from food smudges or whatever mystery goo might be lingering.
On the worst days, they resemble little wildlings, and the first time I glimpse my reflection is while brushing my teeth before bed, often leaving me a bit startled.
On the golden days, I engage with them fully, looking into their eyes as they speak. I put my phone down, kneel to their level, and cling to the sweet sound of their voices saying, “Mama, look!”
But on the rough days, I find myself exclaiming, “For the love of all that’s holy, please stop singing that song right now before I leap out the window!”
On the best days, I can watch patiently as my child struggles for the umpteenth time to put on their favorite, albeit stained, t-shirt the right way. I resist the urge to step in and help.
On the worst days, I find myself wrestling them into the clothes I want them to wear, while they protest and cry, their tear-streaked faces clashing with their meticulously put-together outfits.
On the best days, I become the chronicler of their lives. I’m the one who will reminisce about how, at seven, they couldn’t sit still at the dinner table, or how, at two, they exclaimed, “Holy Shit!” after their potty triumph.
On the not-so-great days, I rush around, repeatedly urging them to “Hurry up!” while I focus on my endless to-do list and forget to appreciate the moments.
On the days when everything is just right, I can overlook the chaos—the clothes strewn about, the dishes piled high, and the bills waiting to be paid. I ask, “Who’s up for a walk outside?” Their excitement makes me realize I should probably look away from the mess more often.
On the chaotic days, I let stress take over. I channel that unknown scary mom voice that I didn’t even know I had until it escapes.
On the best days, when the inevitable homework tears emerge, I set aside the work and offer a comforting hug because sometimes it’s just not worth the fuss.
On the worst days, those tears only lead me to babble on until I forget my own point, reminding me why homeschooling is not my calling.
On the best days, I take a hefty dose of “Chill Out.” I manage to relax because, in the grand scheme, life is usually not that serious.
On the rough days, I find myself trying to control everything, only to ultimately feel defeated and frustrated. Ugh, why?
On the good days, I sit down with a stack of books, reading to them until they signal they’ve had enough. We pile the books beside us, and they look at me with hopeful eyes, asking, “One more?”
On the tough days, I can’t find a spare moment to read, not even for a single story.
On the best days, I think, “I hope they remember this.” On the worst, I find myself wishing they’d forget.
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