Motherhood is not what I expected. I had a great childhood. One of those dreamy little lives that seemed akin the Cleavers. Granted, I have realized that people tend to remember things very different than their parents. I have sweet memories of decorating Christmas cookies with my brothers. My mom remembers the annual Schmidt family brawl. I remember going to my grandparents house for "Grandma-palooza" in the summer while my parents stayed home. I thought that they were so sad missing it all. Little did I know that they were having their own palooza of different kind. We both looked forward to it equally (Ok, let's be honest, they probably looked forward to it more than us) but saw things in very different perspectives.
So each day as I am serving the kids dinner, threatening their lives, giving them a bath, breaking up a fight, tucking them into bed, and teetering on the edge of my sanity as I look down at my wet, tattered, dirty clothes and mussed up hear and the tick in my left eye......I wonder. Are they remembering this the same way? Will they remember amongst all the yelling and discipline and downright mental breakdown of their mother the good things I manage to squeeze in there? Like the extra squirt of bath bubbles I add just to make sure they have enough to share. Or the fact I stayed up an hour late to make sure the right t-shirt they wanted to wear to school the next day made it into the dryer. Or giving them just ONE more cookie because I like they way they smirk when they ask.
Will they eventually turn around and say, "Thanks for not killing me, Mom for...." pouring an entire bottle of strawberry syrup on your new carpet? For running on the driveway in the front yard in your underwear yelling at your brother? For making a trip to the grocery store seem like I needed war paint? For asking the lady in the line at the store if she farted?
I can only hope. Get on my knees every day and pray that the Lord will glaze over the memories and let them remember me as a calm, cool, collected mommy. Ok, so that isn't going to happen. But maybe if I scrape together enough spare change, I can manage to hire a therapist that will convince them one day that hey...Mom wasn't so bad. That is if I am not locked in a padded cell by then.