Happy (day late) Mother’s Day!
If your Facebook news feed was anything like mine you witnessed some very cute mom & kid pictures mixed with articles and open letters about “finally seeing your mom” or “To my mom…”
I skimmed them or skipped past them.
But this morning I woke up to a very messy house, I fought with my three year old about wearing underwear (or any clothes at all), I spilt bubbles all over the floor, and our puppy peed on the carpet … The carpet I just cleaned two weekends ago.
This won’t be motivational. This won’t inspire you within the deep recesses of your mommyhood. It won’t catapult you into the best day ever, where you slay the dragons that be and torch the power of Evil.
No. None of it.
I’m not worried about you seeing me. I’m not worried about you validating my sacrifice of staying at home all day with you and raising you up to be semi-decent humans. When you graduate and are giving your valedictorian speech (or being inducted into the MLB Hall of Fame) I don’t require anything more than a passing nod of appreciation for all that your Dad and I both did for you.
No “I (heart) Mom” tattoos required.
No “My Mom’s my Best Friend” tshirts allowed. (Seriously.)
I won’t threaten future girlfriends or boyfriends. (Well, I won’t. Your father on the otherhand.)
I won’t demand I be present for every single important event.
I will throw you out into the world, with tear-stained cheeks, and be happy simply with the fact that you learned to put underwear on or not undress entirely every time you need to use the restroom, George Constanza.
Then I will get in our RV and begin our cross country trip to every baseball park in the United States. I’ll send you pictures.
Children, if there is one thing I could ask of you. One thing I could wish for you. One thing I could hope for you in the deepest parts of my being…
Learn to freaking clean up after yourselves.
Like … Now.
I know I said I don’t require to be “seen.” But I mean that in the hippy dippy feelings aspect. Your Dad tells me about 10 times a month how much he appreciates me. He even thanks me for dinner. Every night. Do you do that? Of course not. You put yogurt in your hair, refuse to eat, and then beg for snacks 15 minutes later like some idiot with a death wish. I digress. I don’t feel some desire to hear you say the words, “Mom you’ve done so much for me. I see that now. Thank you.”
When I use the term “see” I mean actually, physically, with your blue eyes SEE ME.
Okay. Do you jerkholes SEE me cleaning everyday? No. I’m serious. You think I’m just the crazy lady with the vacuum and EnviroCloth yelling at you to stop stepping on the wet floor?
Is that it? You think I’m crazy?
Fine. Let’s talk about the countless times I ask you to clean up your toys and you pretty much say – nah, rather not.
You’re joking, right?
I go and buy you the cool Paw Patrol toy and you sit there in that cart almost making a pact to never ever pick it up. Ever. EVEN IF THERE’S A FIRE.
I won’t guilt you with the 63+ weeks of puking, the combined 28 hours of labor, the 30 some odd stitches on my hooha, the hemmoraging that cost your father a pair of shoes and many nurses many hours and peace, or even the past 3 years answering to your every beckon.
I should. But I won’t.
But here’s what I will say…
I will throw away all of your toys on Thursday if you don’t clean up today. In the green trash can outside. You will watch the garbage man throw them in the truck.
One gradation or Hall of Fame induction day in the future my hope is that you utter these words …
“Thanks, Mom. For teaching me to clean up after myself. My apartment is neat and tidy and sanitary. I even make my bed. I also love Jesus, but that’s another blogpost for another time.”
Cut to me weeping. Uncontrollably. #proudmom #worthit
And sure, I never cleaned up as a kid and it drove my parents crazy. But they had 800 other things and 1,479 other kids to worry about.
Never me, suckers.
I “gots” all day.
Alllll day and a big ole green trashcan.
My wish for you, beyond one day knowing Jesus, is knowing how to bend over and pick things up . To wipe with a towel when you paint with yogurt
To wipe your own ass.
To wash your hands without using half the bottle of soap and making a cleaning process a messy process.
I don’t need roses. I don’t need to be seen. I don’t need you to erect (ha) statues of me in bronze and tell the world of my famous Chicken Parm and incredible journey as a mother.
I need you to clean the freak up after yourselves.
Garbage Day Cometh,