On the monitor, I can hear the
baby toddler murmuring and occasionally the three year old calls out, "MOMMY I NEEEEEEEEEEEEEEED SOMETHING."
And I stay on the couch. Eyes fixed ahead. Staring at the blank window on my screen.
Nothing is different. There's nothing to say. I want to start with the physical, to wrie where I am, but it's more of the same. I've said it all before. I've been here before. I am always here.
Outside my window, the sun is miraculously bright. I remembered to open my blinds this morning, so light is pouring into my living room and washing over me. This is good.
"HEY!" yells BG from her room. I feel my chest stiffen, my throat close a little. Breathe in, breathe out.
Before quiet time, we watched Peg Plus Cat, all three of us piled on the couch. Little melted into my chest and Big nested herself into a stack of pillows and blankets next to me, laying her head against my shoulder.
This is what I thought motherhood would be. The cuddling. The quiet. The softness.
And for a minute I let myself soften into it instead of feeling guilty about the TV.
Quiet time will end and there will be noise. There will be fighting. There will be 20 minute power struggles over shoes. There will be girls pushing each other onto the floor because they both want to sit in the same chair. There will be bossing. There will be whining.
And sometimes, it's too much for me. I feel like I should (SHOT) love every minute of it, love the noise as much as the cuddles, love the yelling and the pushing and the running in circles and the grabbing and the climbing.
And I don't. I don't love that part.
But yesterday, while I was making dinner, Little pushed Big out of her chair. Big threw herself dramatically backwards on the floor, sobbing and screaming that it was not okay to hit and that nothing would make her feel better.
I looked my one year old in the face and said, "Tell your sister you're sorry."
And she walked over to big sister, climbed on top of her, straddled her chest and said, "Hi!" before throwing herself forward in an embrace.
BG looked at me befuddled. "Mommy, she's not saying sorry, she's just saying hi."
"Sweetie, look how much she loves you. You're so lucky to have a sister. You're both so lucky."
And BG giggled. "Oh, sister."
And she wrapped her arms around her. And they got to their feet, holding hands. Played three rounds of Ring Around the Rosie, giggling like mad the whole time.
I want to be here. And if I sometimes sound negative, if I sometimes sound like I am unhappy with my life, like doing this, mothering my children isn't enough, it's not because I want to be somewhere else.
They're lucky to have each other, even when they are smacking each other in the face, even when they are pushing each other out of chairs, even when they are knocking over towers.
And I'm lucky to have them, even when they are loud and whining and fighting me on every thing I suggest.
And they're lucky to have me. Me. The me with my feet up on the table who is lifting the empty coffee cup to her lips again. The me that reads four books at a time and scribbles in a journal, and does yoga. The me that doesn't know for sure what the next right thing to do is, who feels lost sometimes, who has big feelings and big reactions.
I don't need permission to be me. It's not an option, it's an obligation. And I don't need practice or work at being me. I am already good enough at being me. Already, right now, without any other work.
And I? Am so lucky to have me too. Truly. Even when I'm kicking my own ass.