My cart was filled to the brim with bounty for the Easter Baskets, thinking how far I have come since last Easter's escapade, when my endless guilt got the best of me. I was left questioning my value as a mother, as a wife and a human. I was unsure of my worth and my place in the world.
So much has changed since last year. Our family expanded by two feet with the addition of the Miracle Monkey and as a result I learned that the secret to silencing self-doubt is simply to continue having children until you no longer have time to think, much less feel.
So anyway...I was feeling so much better. And then came Friday. Good Friday, the Catholics call it. I have another name for it.
I had the day off on Friday and I had so many plans for productivity. I had a list and a sketch, I had pre-purchased supplies to expedite the organizational efficiency that was set to take place in with my unscheduled time at home.
But the one thing I didn't factor in was these damn kids.
I made waffles, and fetched milk. I made bottles, and changed sheets. I refereed fights and retrieved a lost "puppy." I fed babies, snuggled Monkeys, and chaperoned a tea party.
But when high noon rolled around my list was un-touched.
The mountain of clothes on my dresser, still in tact, my blog remained un-posted, my body unexercised, the garage un-organized.
The Monkey Maker returned home to find me sitting in a pile of unfolded laundry on the floor, Miracle on my lap, Mini on my back, Middle wailing from his room about the un-fairness of his punishment and Monster...sprawled across my unmade bed demanding to know why I hadn't yet designed his new wrestling singlet.
"How do you do this?!?!" I demanded of him, sobbing. "How do you get everything done all the time? Carpets steamed, bathrooms cleaned, Europe's debt crisis solved....HOW?!?!?! What is wrong with me?"
The words echoed in my head. I have been asking the same question for years.
Why can't I be more like him?
Because I'm not like him. Never will be.
And that's why we work.
And even as I sit here tapping away on my keyboard with my un-manicured fingers and Easter-egg dye-stained hands, "wasting time" writing a blog, I know that the answer is to find a way to accept myself as I am.
Imperfect and un-organized, bored with details like vacuumed carpets and clean dishes. I am instead stimulated by the promise that each moment brings. I am committed to capturing each memory in its truest light, to making something tangible to preserve the fleeting whispers of childhood.
Or some shit like that.
The truth is where I am creative, artistic, inspired; he is practical, productive, and painstakingly purposeful. We will never be the same but I suppose a little of both is good for the kids.