I’ve been thinking a lot about how I used to whine about wanting more kids. I was so sad when I went through menopause and the role of motherhood seemed to be ripped out of my identity long before I was ready. Time is ruthless that way.
Queue five years later: A two-year-old moves in and it alllllll comes back to me.
I don’t want more kids! Sixteen-year-olds are a breeze compared to toddlers. I totally forgot what it was like to have a bin of colored pencils dumped on the floor every time they want to color. I forgot about keeping breakable things above four feet. I forgot about cleaning soggy cheerios and mushed banana bread from between the spokes of my dining room chair. I forgot how much water I used cleaning up messy faces and messy hands and messy bellies and messy high chairs… I bet my water bill has doubled. And then there’s the skipping naptime and all-out war when it comes to bedtime. I totally forgot about that.
Don’t get me wrong. I am loving having my niece stay with me for an extended period of time. I just need to get my mommy-grove back on.
In other news, I rearranged my office and I’m getting used to my new hair. I like it. I think I might keep it.