We have four bathrooms in this house, and I spend more than my fair share of time ensuring that each one is sufficiently stocked with toilet paper so that no one is left in the lurch after doing their business on the can. Contrary to popular belief, a brand new roll doesn’t just magically appear in the cabinet when the one in the holder is running low.
We get up close and personal with bodily fluids.
Vomit? These hands have caught it. Backside explosions? These hands have wiped it. When the shit (vomit, snot, you name it) hits the fan, mothers are often the first ones directly in the line of fire.
We function – and fairly well, I might add – on incredibly low amounts of sleep.
It is not uncommon for mothers to be the first ones up in the morning and the last ones in bed at night. Not to mention, we tend to be the only ones up in the middle of the night. (Well, the only adult, anyway.)
There are no sick days.
Sick day? Sick day? What’s a sick day? There are no vacation days, either. And if you do go on a family vacation, tell me: Don’t you end up needing a vacation from that vacation? I thought so.
Our “me” time during an average, run-of-the-mill day is scant, at best.
Come to think of it, the most alone time I experienced yesterday – not counting naptime – was just before sunrise, when I walked to the kitchen to put the kettle on the stove for my tea. After that, it was off to the races with no turning back.
We’re constantly in demand.
If my son’s train needs fixing, he can’t reach a book on the shelf, or he needs his boo-boo kissed along with the proverbial “All better” seal of approval, who does he call upon? Me. That’s who. Even though Dad is equally capable of solving all of these dilemmas. (I should actually strike this off the list because I’d be lying if I said that this doesn’t make me swell with pride; tee hee hee.)
We settle for the scraps.
Mealtime with a family of four – with two kids under three – can be harried, especially when one of the children depends on your breasts for nourishment. After I unroll the placemats, lay out the plates, silverware, and cups, you’d think it’s time to dig in. But, nope. Just as I lift the fork to my mouth Murphy’s Law strikes and the baby begins to cry because she’s hungry. She didn’t want to eat when I tried to nurse her five seconds prior. No. That’s because she wants to eat with the rest of us. What’s Mother to do? Tell everyone to back away from the food until she can join back in? Yeah, like that would work. So Mother is left to look on while everyone else goes to town, and then she pilfers from the scraps. (At least The Hubs saves the corner slice of deep dish pizza for me.)
What is something you do that you feel is taken for granted?
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