My mom was here for a visit this week and she helped me pick up the pieces. Literally.
This is what my house looked like before she arrived:
And this is what it looked like when she left:
Not seen: me cheering in the corner just like Brinley.
My mom is the patron saint of frazzled mothers. She swoops in on an airplane, settles into our home and cleans up the wake of disaster we leave behind us, she buys me mochas and cookies, she reads stories to my girls and plays with them, and she tells me I’m doing a good job (even though most days I find that hard to believe).
I have been stuck in a stint of parenting where my kids are driving me a little batty with their horrible attitudes and I get so easily frustrated by their poor behavior when it rolls over me like never-ending waves, but then I feel so GUILTY for not savouring the moments with them, and also I feel like I must be failing because they are kind of acting like little jerks a lot of the time. Gah. My “before” laundry room looks like MY MIND. Things strewn about, no order to be found.
Thanks, Mom, for restoring a bit of balance for me. And also for the mochas. Those were really good.