I smell like sour milk. I'm wearing yoga pants, white sweat socks with dirty-floor-gray soles and my second long sleeve t-shirt of the day. My knotted hair is in my face because the pony tail holder I took out at 7 this morning is for some reason still on my wrist.
The baby, who I didn't bother to take out of the carrier when I sat down, is wearing last night's pajamas, which I somehow got leftover chili on at lunch. Her head is about two inches from my cheek, and her breath is warm on my face. She has a spot of cradle cap in the corner of her right eyebrow. Her right arm is wrapped protectively around my left elbow.
The big girl, who finally fell asleep after screaming at me not to leave her for an hour, is also in last night's pajamas. Her lips are probably a little sticky from the grape Ibuprofen I dosed her with after the first half hour of crying. Her shoulder length curly hair was sweaty when I pushed it out of her face as I kissed her finally sleeping forehead and moved her head to her pillow.
My laundry is folded. My bed is made. I listened to a chapter of my library audio copy of Daring Greatly. The blinds are open and every once in a while I see a snowflake float past my window.
This is not really what I thought motherhood would look like.
Soon, both girls will be awake. Hopefully the afternoon will involve more playing than screaming. Hopefully I will find a way to stop hiding from my feelings of inadequacy, of frustration, of resentment, and really be present enough to enjoy the moments that appear, however messy they look. Hopefully I will take this moment to recharge, to gear up for the coming campaign, and I will be a better and more willing mother for having taken the moment.