Everyday, as soon as I leave for work, I’m eager to return home. I think about the kiddos and my hubby all day, imagining how nice it will be to get home, relax on the couch, eat dinner with those I love.
And then I get home.
Before I can pull the door shut behind me, the middle one is grabbing my hand, trying to pull me into the living room, “Come on Mommy, I want to show you something!”
“Give Mommy a minute, baby girl. Let me get my coat off.”
She gives me an “anngh,” her sound of disgust that is so high pitched, I’m surprised we still have windows.
I look up at my husband, already starting dinner **the lovely man that he is**, and shrug. He smiles knowingly back.
“Mommy, Mommy!” The little one runs up, a coy smile across his face. He bats his eyelashes at me. “Me just pooped my pants,” he says before he breaks into a grin and runs away, looking for a chase.
I look at my hubby again for help, and he shakes his head and says, “It’s your turn.”
“Mommy will be there in just a minute,” I say, dropping the coat off my shoulders and unwrapping my scarf. Just then the oldest walks into the kitchen.
“I told you, I don’t want spaghetti,” a scowl on her face.
I lean down and kiss the top of her head, “Hi honey.”
She abruptly turns and glares at me, then lets out a big sigh, exasperated. She storms out of the kitchen and stomp-runs up the stairs, and I can feel the walls shake when she slams her door.
Welcome home Mommy!
This is every day life. It is no better and no worse than every other day of the week. Every day is chaotic when you have children, at least to some degree. Every day there are dirty diapers and bruised knees and 7 year olds who think they are 14.
And every day I walk through that kitchen door and feel overwhelmed.
Don’t misunderstand. I love my children. I love my husband. And most days, I love my life. But sometimes I just want to take a moment. Breathe. Be. But that just doesn’t happen in real life.
In my eagerness to get home, I picture this peaceful homecoming, where one child is sitting doing their homework, while another is setting the supper table. The baby has clean clothes on and a clean face. There are hugs and kisses and so-glad-you’re-homes. But this is not real life. Real life is chaos.
And if I’m honest, I wouldn’t want to trade in the chaos for the calm; the chaos is what makes us, us. But sometimes the bad mom inside me takes over and in those moments, I’m thinking: “What the hell was I thinking?!”