Gold Medal Momming

I’m not in the practice of patting myself on the back all too often (hello, all other moms out there too!), but may I just say, after this weekend, I think I deserve the gold medal for mothering the shit out of my kids.

I’m not saying I did it great or I did it with a smile on my face the whole time, but we waded through some capital “C” Crap this weekend, and I am here to say I steered the ship quite handily through the sludge, thankyouverymuch.

Sit back, relax, and let me regale you.

I take you back to Thursday, when said “weekend” began (because here I am measuring the weekend not by the calendar but by the series of agita-inducing events perpetuated on our hapless family), when I realized I forgot to get my son something from our house for Show and Tell. This was followed by me frantically trying to convince him in the parking lot that, Yes! An umbrella is a super interesting toy to show off to your friends for show and tell and ooooh, look how it opens and closes and is so yellow AND DEAR LORD PLEASE DON’T MAKE ME HAVE TO MAKE A TRIP BACK TO THE SCHOOL WAAAAAAH… which ended—I will let you guess—with my son’s rightful assertion that I am crazy, and no way, I need to go back home.

So, back home I went to get two toys (because mom guilt induces this kind of illogical frezny) and deliver them back to school.

Then, next up on our To-Do list was picking up Andrew from his Lasik appointment, with the two little kids in tow. We parked in the parking lot and watched a movie while we waited (I STILL LOVE YOU SO HARD, MINIVAN), and that’s when I decided to nurse the baby, and also ended up accidentally flashing a man who pulled into the spot next to me.

(I hope he likes nipples. Judging by the horrified look on his face, I don’t think so.)

Moments later, while still in the van, I was informed by my adorable but clearly-still-boundary-testing 3-year-old that she had painted the entire back of one of the captain’s chair seats with her very bright, and very berry-colored lipstick.

To be specific, the line was, after requesting some baby wipes: “Mommy, do these take off lipstick?”, followed by a guilty smile, followed by a string of about 35 apologies and me hauling my butt to the back seat to wipe off the entire seat with Water Wipes. (Sidenote: Water Wipes ARE THE BOMB.)

Then came Friday, whereupon my dear son projectile vomited in the lobby of my workout place–not once but twice–and I apologized profusely and flew back home only to witness his bed and the hallway get the same splatter treatment.

That night Andrew and I had a dinner to attend—a family function that we just could not miss—so into the capable hands of our sitter we put all three kiddos. Per the report, poor little sick dude passed out, the baby also went to sleep well, but then we got a phone call where my little girl sobbed into the phone, “Why are you always so buuuuusy?” and BAM. Heart? Broken. (And also, I’m kind of flattered because I see the kid all day every day and yet she still wants more of me!)

Then, Saturday. Oh, sweet Saturday, give me respite.

And you know what? It did seem, for a while, that things would be calmer. And if you follow me on Instagram you may have seen on my Insta Stories that we did, in fact, have a fun time walking around at Universal CityWalk and the Portofino Bay Hotel. It’s one of our favorite things to do when the weather is nice.

But when we got back home, little dude’s fever flared again, and—at the risk of giving away too much information that may embarrass him down the line—let’s just say there was an emergency trip to the bathroom where we very barely beat the clock, but our bathroom floor and my leg paid the price for some, ahem, bad aim.

Then the baby stayed up an hour and a half past her bedtime, which in baby time is, what, two thousand years?

And my daughter started showing signs of getting sick and didn’t fall asleep until 10:15. All in all, a four-and-a-half hour “bedtime routine” for us.

Look, I’m not complaining. I’m actually smiling as I’m writing this because damn it, in motherhood, if you don’t laugh, you cry.

I love my kids more than life and am seriously happy to be their personal assistant/caretaker/puke catcher, but I gotta say, Mama’s tired.

And I rarely think this, let alone put it down in black and white—and I’m certain if you’re a mom, you don’t do this either—but you know what? I’m gonna say it: I kinda kicked ass this weekend. I’m proud of myself. In moments where I could have lost my mind, I chose to laugh instead. Blame the exhaustion, the complete lowering of standards, or whatever else, but I’m done being hard on myself.

Let’s all take the time today, moms, no matter what stage of parenting we are in, to tell ourselves one simple thing: We rock. No matter the amount of puke or poop or backtalk you get today, you still got this.

And if you know a mom in need of some encouragement, please, tell her those words too. It may be just what she needs to hear to get through the next day, or three.

Godspeed, fellow mamas. Keep on!

Like this post? Check out 5 Things They Don’t Tell You About Childbirth, and Slime is My Archenemy.

Sonni Abatta is a wife and mom of three and runs this Orlando lifestyle and mom blog. Let’s chat or collaborate! Reach out here.

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