A gentle breeze wafts through the air as she steps out of the freshly painted back door onto a meticulously swept deck. The soft chime of wind bells announces her arrival. Her partner, relaxed and fresh from his afternoon jog, is engrossed in the New York Times crossword, pen in hand, as he accepts a glass of wine. I overhear her ask, “Did you change the air filters again? Didn’t you just do that?” Her words cut through me like a knife, destined to linger in my mind. “What else is on my to-do list?” he chuckles.
I glance over at their garden and feel a twinge of envy at her vibrant larkspur. I adore larkspur. And sweet peas. And those Blackfoot daisies that line up in neat rows, harmonizing with the mule grass that complements the stone of her house just enough to appear serendipitous. How do those crepe myrtles thrive so quickly?
Meanwhile, a Playmobil dinosaur head has sprouted in my flowerbed. The butterfly bush seems to have forgotten its purpose, the roses are wilting, and the weeds are triumphantly winning a battle that only they can perceive. The Carolina jessamine is half-alive and half withered. Five bags of black mulch have lingered next to the flowerbeds for six long weeks, untouched. My spacing of flowers fizzled out midway down the row, resulting in a garden that looks well-intentioned yet humorously neglected, overshadowed by more pressing matters inside.
Suddenly, I am jolted back to reality by a wet rag smacking me in the head, hurled by my son. “Mom, can I pee in the birdbath?” he asks, as he’s already doing it. My daughter wanders into view, blissfully naked, with two plastic beads crammed into her nostrils. The chaos begins. I can hear more wine being poured across the street, accompanied by a debate over whether it’s a Shiraz or a Pinot. I dig out the beads with my pinkies, my other fingers still sticky with Play-Doh. Meanwhile, my son is now burying something—could it be a toy or something else? Neighbors and their friends gather for laughter and cocktails, enjoying life across the street. I finally manage to extract the beads from my daughter’s nose, and blood splatters onto my porch.
What do my neighbors possess that I lack? Time and money. They are retired. I gaze at their pristine blue living room through my window, marveling at the absence of clutter! No trash, no wet diapers cluttering the shelves, and no half-painted walls sighing for completion. Their space is free of laundry mountains and magazines, sticker books, dining table leaves, empty FedEx boxes, or pictures that have fallen off the walls. No broken hobby horse with a filthy mop lodged in its body, always lying in the middle of the room.
Here’s the kicker: I often question if I made the right choice in becoming a mother. I’d never voice that thought out loud, as if it would evaporate and become meaningless. Of course, I love my kids. I longed for them, and I still do. Yet sometimes that nagging thought creeps in: “Maybe I shouldn’t have had kids.” It’s both true and false at the same time.
This internal struggle is fueled further when I see that retired couple, and my envy morphs into guilt—an even more burdensome emotion. If guilt were a currency, mothers would be the wealthiest shareholders.
I reminisce about my life before parenthood: late-night conversations with my husband about music, honeymooning along the Italian coast, navigating a dirt path to a clifftop restaurant, and almost being trampled by a procession during Easter festivities. I dream of the future: reading an entire book in one night, exploring places beyond Sea World for an anniversary. Now, I look at our reality: haggard, stained shirts, and the frantic endeavor to prepare a meal. I know these days will pass, though the truth is, I can’t be sure—everyone just says that.
I step inside to determine the best tool for mopping up blood. As I cross the threshold, my son leaps from the staircase landing, eyes alight like the plastic dragon in his grasp. “Catch me! Hjeeeeh!” my little dragon shouts mid-air.
I see his head, that beautiful, perfect head, soaring toward me. It’s like a bowling ball thrown from someone’s hand, hilarious until you remember how hard it will hit if it falls. He crashes into me, our bodies merging into one. Arms and legs tangled, I feel the weight of us both, and I’m losing my balance. In these moments, you don’t think—you become an Olympic athlete, a breathtaking savior, muscles formed from the chaos around you, reflexes like a cheetah.
His precious head… I recall the ultrasound photo, that floppy first car ride home, and the heaviness of sleep. I just want to absorb the impact myself, to keep him safe. I pray that my back, shoulder, and thigh will soften the fall. Twisting, I see the tile floor and brace my padded upper back like an airbag. We land, his head resting on my chest, a moment of stillness, back to our original position after birth. Silence. We made it, unscathed.
“Mom?” he breaks the quiet.
I pause. “Yes?”
He thinks for a moment, then whispers, “I know what I want for a pet. I finally figured it out!”
I fantasize about Nana the dog from Peter Pan, happily watching over the kids while I luxuriate in a bath forever.
“A termite!” he exclaims, bursting with pride.
“Won’t a termite eat our house?” I respond, surprised by the calmness in my voice.
“No, Mom! I can train him!” he insists, still lounging there, completely relaxed.
His arms wrap around my neck, a rare gesture of affection. I’ve earned it, pulling him close like the last blanket on a cold Alaskan night. We lie there, perhaps forever—but really just for ten seconds.
Someday, I will reach that idyllic, retired phase of life. But for now, I remain on the front lines, baby.
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Summary
The piece captures the chaotic yet fulfilling reality of motherhood, emphasizing moments of love and conflict while contrasting it with the perceived ease of life from the outside. It navigates the emotional landscape of parenting, touching on themes of guilt, dreams of the past, and hopes for the future.