There once was a time, before back fat and perpetual under eye bags, that I really felt rested. I had energy and ambition. In the days before I had a toddler planted on my hip, I wore perfume. Now I just radiate the smells of motherhood - shit, vomit, and spoiled milk.
It wasn't long ago, just over two years in fact, that the main focus in my life was me. Responsibility was minimal and freedom was abundant. I could sleep all day and stay out all night. I even faintly remember bitching about being bored.
Boredom isn't a luxury I often have these days. Grace is a frickin handful and keeps us perpetually on our toes. Morning, noon, night, and every waking second in between, Grace is going. Stuck at that unfortunate, albeit adorable, stage - Grace is able to do almost everything but can't articulate what she's after. This results in numerous power struggles. It's not that I don't want to give Grace whatever her little heart desires, I'm just not sure what "nene shhiiiit" is referring to.
Napping is a thing of the past; something Grace refuses to tolerate. Those precious few hours between lunch and dinner were an absolute necessity, not only for housework, but also my mental health. But Mama doesn't give up that easy. We still go upstairs every afternoon and lay her down with blankie, praying to GOD that she gives us an hour. It is now that Grace will "fake nap" and commence the creation of her afternoon shitastrophe. I'll spare you the image, although lord knows we've got one. Think shit. EVERYWHERE.
Come afternoon, I might actually get Grace to sit still, but only at the coaxing of apple juice and Yo Gabba. I usually take this opportunity to score some solid mother/daughter bonding time.
Here, I'm caught deflecting one of the numerous of the vicious toddler attacks I am subject to daily. Grace goes directly for the eyeballs, occasionally probing her little finger right up your nose. If I'm lucky the attack will be brief, Grace will tire and I will soak up the cuddles. And if I'm extra lucky, Grace will cover me in apple juice vomit just in time for DJ Lance's super music friend show.
Gone are the days of $100 perfume and smokey eye shadow. I'm lucky if I get a shower twice a week and every shirt I own has some sort of stain on it. Downy lavender dryer sheets are as close as I get to perfume, and a touch of carmex is all I've got time for. Is it all a pain in the ass? Kind of. But occasionally, Grace gives me a second. No crying or whining, vomit free, and without sticky hands. She'll look deep into my eyes and say "mama!", and give me a big old kiss. Moments like this make up for all of the above. :)