Summer at home with three kiddos under the age of 5 is about to drive me to the brink of insanity. They go to summer school two days a week. For that, I am more than grateful. The other three days—well, I survive. Just barely.
Sometimes I feel like such a freak. You know, when I think about that lady in Arkansas who is expecting #18. About the only thing she and I have in common is that we both chose names for our kids beginning with the same letter (she: J; I: S). That naming strategy alone precludes me from reproducing 15 more kids. No way I could come up with 15 more “S” names.
So, she’s Supermom: pregnant, breastfeeding, homeschooling, and just exuding a maternal glow during Today show interviews.
I really think I’m the antithesis of Mrs. Mom of 18.
I still look pregnant but have gratefully left the nausea and discomfort far behind. Some days I feel like my greatest parenting strategy is playing Thomas the Tank movies back to back to back. I do exude something, but it’s not a maternal glow. It’s sweat. All I do is sweat. All the time. I’m hot and dripping wet with sweat all the time. Really.
Wednesday, we went to a birthday party for one-year-old twin girls. We met Penny and Rusty and the girls through POTATO, the parents of twins club. We were all excited to celebrate with them. The kids were thrilled to be going to a birthday party. They know that means cake.
I was thrilled to have a fun outing and give them some additional play time.
By the time we got to the party, I felt as if I had made the journey on foot. Hot, sweaty (as I said, always sweating…), tired. Nothing is ever easy. Not even going to a freaking birthday party. Yes, I was the mom who looked as if she had rolled out of bed. No makeup. Hair pulled back (because, as I said, I’m sweaty all the time). I promise I had bathed. All the other moms were adorable. Cute and made up. Painted nails. Skinny waists. Jewelry and makeup. How do you do it?
And, yes, my boys were the ones not tossing, not rolling, but HURLING, LOBBING, balls throughout the party place. My daughter was the one picking up the babies at the party. You know, a grip that vaguely resembles the Heimlich maneuver while Baby hangs on for dear life. Yep, the Bernards partied with bells on.
Oh, and I’m the one who left the tattered gift bag, excavated from my jumbled-up gift wrap stash moments before we left the house. Don’t even ask me how many cute, so-adorable-you’d-want-to-die, polka-dotted, plaid, and ribboned presents were on the gift table.
No wonder I had a headache all night long. Something like someone was driving an ax through my forehead just over my right eye.
Do you think Mrs. Mom of 18 ever has a headache?
Nahhh. I doubt it.
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