When I was in my twenties I could wrangle with two, three, four, and more small children. Throw some teenagers in that mix. I could take them all on.
Get them to school.
Teach them to count.
Get them to nap.
Clean their clothes and put them away.
Read them Fraggle Rock.
Lecture them with the best of them!
Pay the bills.
Disinfect the bathroom daily. Yes, daily.
Cook the dinner and clean it up.
Help with homework.
Watch Unsolved Mysteries and Little House On The Prairie.
Sing Amazing Grace and say their prayers every night.
I could rock that mom thing with ease.
Possibly with some grumbling.
But I got it done.
I’m not twenty something.
Add one sixteen month old child to my day and….
I don’t care that the house is dirty.
I don’t care that he hits Po and it makes me laugh.
I don’t care if he drinks coffee (I’m KIDDING!).
I don’t care if all he has to do to get his way is pout or hug me. He’s getting his way.
I don’t care if he drags every single item out of every single drawer and cupboard.
The house is trashed. I’m tired beyond exhaustion.
Now that I’m not twenty.
I don’t care.
All of those things I don’t get to…
I’ll get to them when I’m not holding him.