In case my family looks at me with those confused expressions again when I say I am tired, might I present this as a short memoir;
As a “cave drawing” of sorts.
Somehow, my level of exhaustion never feels like a factor to them, even though they expect to get out of taking out the garbage with excuses such as “But…Wii Sports made my arm hurt.”
I am the mother: The one expected to never stop, to pick up kids like I am an Uber, and to carry 10 grocery bags inside in the rain without help unless I specifically ask them.
The two day break I have requested, from the feedback I’m getting, seems like it’s asking a whole lot.
THEM: *tracing the fine print of a stack of documents*
“Yeah….We’re just not seeing that in the contract…”
All I am wanting is for them to accept my air fryer chicken tenders and a steamed bag of broccoli as dinner when I just cannot bring myself to cook.
It’s a simple request, really.
I just want to be ugly for at least four solid days, and have a hiatus from driving in a loop.
I think the main problem is that mothers are mostly unperceived.
Our main work is done in the dark.
We slip into phone booths and trade our glasses for capes, and have saved the day before anyone else even knew something was wrong.
We will have already captured a bad guy, and saved three lives, when no one else’s eyes even see the signal.
The last 3 months have been the busiest of my life, with a multitude of wonderful things going on, but they have meant that I have been going non-stop, driving myself to the point of complete exhaustion to get everything done.
Since the beginning of October, I have decorated a baby’s nursery, thrown an elaborate baby shower, spent the day in San Francisco with multiple teenagers for my daughter’s birthday, then nursed that same daughter back to existence after a complicated wisdom tooth removal, made multiple Halloween costumes by hand, hosted Thanksgiving, watched my first grandchild be born after spending three days sleeping on a hospital waiting room loveseat, put on Christmas, turned 47, painted and decorated an entire apartment for my mom, moved her here, and took down Christmas.
*curtain*
It has been the most full and abundant three months, and I am so very grateful, but, for the love, a girl needs to be braless and just sit staring into space blankly on her bed a bit without hearing “Where’s Mom?” approaching from down the hall.
I have arrived at this week as if I just slid into base: Panting, and face-down, sprawled out flat.
I have set them all up nicely in their own separate spaces just like the old days of turning a show on for them, and telling them “Now Mommy’s going to go lay down for awhile.”
I see their pained expressions now when I tell them, “I can’t.”
I know they got used to steak and mashed potatoes, or homemade sticky buns.
I know they saw me in my cheerful ruffled apron, and got hopeful of the mom to come;
But it is January now.
January is for things that come from a box or the freezer.
I don’t make these rules. They just exist.
In January you are just supposed to live on the memory of good things;
The “old acquaintances” you hope you don’t forget.
If you need to see a fancy dinner laid before you in January, open up a cookbook, find a photo you like, and maybe try giving that a lick.
As a matter of fact, I think the exhaustion of mothers worldwide in January is probably the real reason a February Valentine’s Day exists.
All those dads out there, by then living for a month in stark contrast of The Wives of December, are finally starting to have it sink in how valuable those women are by the time February comes.
They start getting desperate.
The heart-shaped boxes, jewels, and scent of roses are there to beg the wife to please return and cook more than a microwaved quesadilla for them.
I gladly give to my family.
I love and cherish every single one.
It’s just that in January I need to cherish them from my bed, while the scents of Kraft Mac and Cheese fill up my home.
The time that used to belong to me baking and wrapping things in December now belongs to romance novels and Epsom salt baths.
“Dear Family, I love you. I have given you my all.
Now, if you don’t mind me, I’ve got a feral look to achieve for the next three weeks.
Wake me up when January is done.”
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.
