If I wasn’t a mom

Mother’s Day. When people proclaim what a blessing it is to be a mom. When kids praise their own mamas for the exemplary job they did raising them. It’s all very sweet, isn’t it?

Well, I’d like to start off with something a little different. I’d like to pretend, just for a little while, that I’m not a mom. What would I do with all that freedom? Let’s not pretend like I haven’t thought about it. I know exactly what I’d do.

I’d only stay up late because I want to. 

I’d sleep in. 

I wouldn’t touch other people’s poop. 

I’d clean less. 

I’d pee alone. 

I’d shower more often. 

I’d wear white shirts. 

I’d leave the house more often. 

I’d spend more money on myself. 

I’d eat at better restaurants. 

I’d worry less. 

And it would all be very nice (especially that part about not having to touch another person’s feces).  And sometimes, on days when naps are elusive and tantrums are frequent, I wish I could find myself back in that simpler time.

But I know what would happen when I got there. I’d long for more. I’d face the gut feeling that life just wasn’t quite complete. And as the years went by, I’d wonder when it would finally be whole. I wouldn’t care that finding that fulfillment would mean giving up sleep or showers or money or bits of my sanity.

If I wasn’t a mom, I’d want to be one.

Because even though motherhood is a total disaster, it’s the most beautiful one I’ve ever seen. Maybe I only eat at restaurants with dirty high chairs and wear black 90% of the time to hide all the crap my kid smears on me, but it’s okay. I get to be loved by this tiny person.

And I get to love him back. When everything else gets stripped away, I can’t imagine anything better than that.

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