Well, evil itself didn't save us -- that would just be wrong, don't you think? Really it was the act of her saying it, in that adorably wrong way, that did it for me (her). Kind of like she says "Noh My-Kuh" for John Michael and "Tayes" for Hayes and "An-see PANTS" for Aunt Nancy, which my sister hates but I think is fantastic. It's just sweet, you know?
But really nothing else has been sweet lately. The Mama Well of Patience is running perilously close to dry these days. I am tired of fighting every time she needs her diaper changed, every time she needs to get out of the tub, and every time I need to clean up her tray. I am tired of her bolting for her room and crawling under her crib so I can't reach her. I am tired of wearing oatmeal, finding half-eaten and rotting apples rolling around under my seat in the car, and scraping purple crayon off her tongue for the 80-zillionth time. I am tired of getting drenched every time I give her a bath. I am tired of getting hit in the head because she hasn't got the communication skills to explain why the hell she's so mad.
I guess what I'm saying here is that I am tired.
Now, five years ago if I had come across a blog post like this one, written by some woman who was lucky enough to have found someone she wanted to marry (and married him), had a healthy, happy child, and a roof over her head to call her own -- well, I would have wanted to kill her. I mean, come on -- GET A GRIP ALREADY. It's life! It's motherhood! This is what you sign up for!
But still, I am tired.
And even when I think back to this time a year ago when things with Dad got impossibly hard and all I wanted was to be out from under it? Yes, I am quick to remind myself that this is certainly much better than that. This is what I was waiting for, right?
Yes. And even so -- I am tired.
Don't get me wrong. I love my daughter, and most of the time (OK, some of the time, usually) I love being her mother. I love watching her jump and march and gallop around, listening to her mimic everything she hears, seeing the lightbulb come on when she learns something new. I love seeing pieces of me, and Rob, and my mom in the way she moves or thinks or holds her mouth. I love all of that. And I am all too well aware of how very little time there really is to spend with her and I refuse (refuse!) to wish away a single second of it. What I wouldn't give for one more second with my mom. (Nothing. There is nothing I wouldn't give.)
But that doesn't mean I have to actually like every second. Or that I can't be tired. Right?
Deliver me from mee-voh, Lord. And if You could throw in an extra dose of patience that would be great.