The house is a colossal mess. The floors are sticky with juice-laden footprints. The laundry seems to be multiplying by the hour (and I wonder why these children have so many pairs of pajamas?!) And, whatever you do, PLEASE DON’T LOOK AT MY TOILETS
Bedtime TOOK FOREVER as little ones kept getting up for a drink, then to go potty, then they were hungry (and now they are thirsty again.) Just when I settle in to actually get something done, I hear little footsteps yet again; this time they are scared.
I’m exhausted from being woken up again and again by a teething babe, and getting to bed late after trying to accomplish something in the quiet hours while they sleep.
‘Round and ’round I go, each day seeming to be a repeat of managing choas, constant discipline, and I wonder what the heck we were thinking by having three kids in under five years?
Children are a blessing. Right, right; I know, I know. But so often I struggle with connecting what I know to what I feel. So what must I cling to in the moments when the last word I would use to describe my experience in motherhood is blessed?