The toy room window is smeared with a glossy layer of chapstick, the scent of strawberry wafting through the air. Lying on the floor is a flattened eos, its lid missing, and covered in cat fur—the pink one, my favorite. It’s the epitome of toddler defiance.
Mega Bloks trucks are soaring through the air, despite my relentless admonitions of “Stop throwing things!” My youngest has a goose egg on his head, and a shriek so high-pitched it feels like it could shatter the chapstick-coated glass. In the time-out chair, one toddler is wailing so loudly it makes my throat ache, and there’s a bruise forming on my thigh from the struggle to get him there.
Another toddler is crying for Mom while hurling Hot Wheels at the wall, chipping the fresh paint—paint that we could get charged a fortune for if it’s not touched up, since we just moved into this new apartment. Outside, a stack of unpacked boxes waits on the patio, filled mostly with kid clutter.
The kitchen countertop houses a broken food processor, its motor fried from my ambitious attempt at homemade almond butter that morning (so much for my “crunchy” mom aspirations). An expensive clump of almonds sits in the trash, a $10 bill’s worth of wasted effort. An empty sippy cup lies abandoned in the living room, a rubber no-spill valve lodged at the bottom, likely dislodged after being tossed on the floor for the umpteenth time.
A sour odor permeates the house, and when I ask the toddler where he spilled the milk, he simply giggles and runs away. Ants are marching through the bathroom, carting off bits of granola bar. How many times have I told the boys to keep their snacks in the kitchen?
The fridge has an 18-count egg carton, and guess what? It’s entirely empty. Meanwhile, a cookie recipe beckons from the countertop, calling for two eggs. Two inconsolable boys are now shrieking in grief because I promised we’d bake cookies today.
There’s a baby gate on the floor, and one toddler has made a beeline for the litter box. Yes, there’s cat litter in my toddler’s mouth. I can’t even. It’s stuck to my socks. The vacuum cleaner is in the closet, full to the brim, as is the trash can.
Under my breath, I’m muttering “fudge”—a lot of it. Fruit flies buzz around, even though there’s no fruit in sight. My toddlers are demanding “’nanas!” and my head is pounding, probably in sync with the theme song from Daniel Tiger.
I glance at the clock—57 minutes until Daddy gets home… 56 minutes and 54 seconds… 56 minutes and 48 seconds… The burning in my eyes is like being at the optometrist, enduring that puffy air test. I just want to close them, but I’m not allowed to stop until the chaos subsides.
Stress, anger, chaos, and fatigue swirl around me. Motherhood, in all its messy glory, weighs heavily on my shoulders. And then, the tears come. They cling to my lashes, blurring my vision of the disaster surrounding me.
Tears stream down my face, soaking my unkempt hair, pulled loose by the little hands that tugged at me during storytime. They drip from my chin, pooling on my sweatpants next to a glob of dried yogurt flung at me earlier. These tears are not cathartic; they fall like an unrelenting storm, and the harder they fall, the more broken I feel.
But then… two tiny arms wrap around me in a way that’s not your typical toddler chokehold. A small set of lips puckers towards me, and two beautiful hazel eyes—my own reflection—look back with pure concern. “I love you, Mama,” they say sweetly.
And just like that, everything else fades away.
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In summary, motherhood is a beautiful yet chaotic journey filled with challenges and moments of pure joy.
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