I love being a mom.
Growing up it was all that I said when asked what I wanted to be.
So much of it is exactly what I pictured.
Their faces at Christmas,
a birthday cake smash,
their first time riding a bike.
But no one told me how big of a percentage of time while being a mother I would spend wishing my kids would,
for the LOVE,
just go to sleep.
No honest mom can deny that they’re just *slightly* more adorable when they’re sleeping.
Once they sleep for a solid two hours,
I even kind of start to miss them, and sometimes look at pictures of them on my phone.
I really enjoy having that chance to miss them.
The other day my husband, Justin, randomly asked me where a person goes about buying chloroform.
I tried not to dwell too long on his reason for asking that,
but I can’t be certain it wasn’t because of this very issue.
I spent hundreds of hours sleep training these kids.
I put in the hard work.
I sat outside their bedroom doors and Ferber Methoded the heck out of them.
As a daycare provider, I have even sleep trained other people’s kids for them.
And you think it’s over once they’re one or two.
You think you’ve really got it down,
but apparently I do not know what I’m doing at even at all,
because these cyborgs never rest.
To get my youngest, Paige, to sleep,
(I fear, completely by my own doing)
she requires that I lay with her, give her a scented oil massage, fan her, control all air currents, and feed her organic grapes.
OK, so not really,
but it’s not that far a cry.
I will be a half-hour into my servantly duties to her, think she’s finally asleep,
and then be hit with some big life question she feels is immediately pressing.
Do angels have feet?
Is zero considered a number?
Why is Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson not more popular than he currently is?
Last night, after thinking she was finally out,
I was just about to leave her room when she sat up like she had been struck by lightning and demanded to know if her school principal’s hair was natural, or dyed that color.
I have answered questions such as if people always shouting “His name is my name, too” makes it awkward for John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt to go on a first date.
She has shared her theories on the concept of infinity,
asked me to google various up-close images of insect eyeballs,
and even went through a fairly long phase of wanting me to sing the Hokey-Pokey like a soft, slow, mournful lullaby.
Of note: It is very creepy that way.
I answer these questions to the best of my ability, truly valuing childhood curiosity,
but, FRIENDS, some nights I just want to hand her an encyclopedia and a book-lamp, pat her, and proceed to what *I* feel is pressing:
Answering “Yes, I am still watching” at least 4 times.
Once Paige is finally sleeping, and I retreat to my comfy red chair, inevitably here comes my 11 year old, Chloe.
Her needs are generally more anxiety based.
She needs water because she fears dehydration more than the average person.
She needs a hug,
she needs a detailed account of the origin of every single noise she heard in the last 6 minutes, and she needs some life affirmation.
She will need it all 4 more times throughout the night.
But, it’s hard to give affirmation when you’re frustrated, and just began your alone time.
It sounds something like
“I PROMISE YOU’RE GOING TO BE OK,”
and it looks something like you’re trying to hide that you have just been stung by a wasp.
Once Chloe is in bed, next will come Tessa trudging by half-asleep, headed to our room with her pillow.
I will later have to walk her back to her own bed like a sheep herder.
She will remember nothing in the morning.
I often feel like I’m running a frat house here.
Soothing the party-goers,
assuring them that the walls are not breathing,
making sure they get home safe,
and are wearing their own clothes.
The Instagram version of our nightly routine takes about half an hour,
but the reality is it takes more like 3,
what with their requests for water testing kits, and the multiple bathroom trips for bladders apparently the sizes of lentils.
And now
here comes daylight savings time to further the stick in my spokes.
Now just to torture me,
the clock numbers will start with a 5 when Paige wakes up asking to please play with my phone,
or Chloe stands bed-side to jolt me awake with news that the dog has diarrhea.
This has prompted an idea –
raise your hands if you feel it –
Mom Savings Time.
Where at least 150 times a year, kid bed time falls two hours early.
I’m trying to get signatures.
Necessity is the mother of invention, after all,
and right now this mother needs kids who,
OH PLEASE,
just go to bed.
Mom Outnumbered
Hi! My name is Kerri Green; Wife to Justin, and mother to four highly entertaining daughters -Alena, Chloe, Tessa, and Paige. I am an artist, a writer, a daycare provider, a lover of people, a believer that there is humor and beauty in all things, and the author of Mom Outnumbered; a blog about real family life, and my observations of it. My goal is to make people laugh, to be there for them when they cry, and most importantly, to let them know that they are not at all alone in this up and down world. I live with my family in Sebastopol California, and I am opening the window into our life. So welcome! Come in. Sit down. Just please don’t mind the mysterious wet spots.
