The Hardest Job You’ll Ever Love

I once read a comment on a blog where a debate was raging about working versus stay-at-home moms. The commenter claimed that being a mom was not that hard. Tedious maybe, but not hard. This stuck with me for some reason. Perhaps because my own husband had just claimed that spending 3 straight days with our insanely active toddler was not as stressful as his desk job. Maybe I was just being a whiner, I thought. Maybe I’m exaggerating the physical and emotional toll of motherhood. I mean, is reading books and changing diapers and playing with blocks all day really that tough? I almost had myself convinced that the person who wrote that comment was right. AND THEN I WOKE UP.

Literally. About 7 times in one night, because Miles was coughing and miserable and I couldn’t do a thing for him except run the humidifier, rub his back, and listen to the phlegm rattle around in his tiny chest. And then, delirious and exhausted, I had to get up with the sun and function.

First I had to switch over the wet laundry from the washer -- where it had been sitting forgotten for days -- because Miles had no clean socks. Then I washed his bottles by hand (because the dishwasher was full of dirty dishes), made the oatmeal, cooled the oatmeal, fed the oatmeal to my son, and then spent 25 minutes cleaning the oatmeal off of everything in sight.

While I was doing this, Miles wandered into the family room and managed to topple off the toy box and collide with the edge of the brick fireplace. So then I had to fetch the Boo-Boo Bunny from the freezer, soothe my child, and duct-tape some foam to the fireplace, which I had been meaning to do since Miles started crawling. This reminded me that I needed to make his next appointment with the pediatrician, so I spent the next 15 minutes on the phone.

Writing his appointment on the calendar, I noticed that my mother’s birthday was in 2 days. So it’s off to the card shop we go, after loading child, stroller, sippy cup, and diaper bag into the car. Note: child weighs roughly the same as a bag of wet cement. But first we needed gas and, oh, right, I forgot to go to the bank and we’re out of stamps, too. By the third errand, Miles had lost patience and refused to get back into the car seat. When I FINALLY got him back in and decided to leave him in the car for 5 seconds while I returned an overdue library book, a stranger berated me for negligent parenting.

When we got home, I discovered the dog had chewed up a pair of sunglasses and thrown up on the floor. Miles immediately began splashing in the dog puke. Into the bath we go. After wrestling him and his 17 bath toys into and out of the tub, it was time for lunch. The mealtime sequence was repeated.

During Miles’ nap, I attempted to get some work done, but the phone kept ringing. Then the UPS guy rang the doorbell, which made the dog bark, which woke up the baby. Naptime was cut short. The afternoon passed ever so slowly in a fog of snacks, Play-Doh, crayons, time-outs for improper use of Play-Doh and crayons, and various other activities.

After Miles got soaked splashing in the dog’s water bowl, I decided to change him into his PJs early. The last clean pair. Less than half an hour later, he had a diaper blowout that rendered both him and the PJs filthy. I cleaned him up with some wipes (I couldn’t face another bath) and went to check the dryer for clean PJs. The dryer had stopped working and I was met with a wad of wet clothes. By this time, Miles was hungry for dinner, so the mealtime sequence is repeated AGAIN. Also, we were out of milk, and my husband was working late. Who the f*&%?! said this job wasn’t hard?!?!

And yet, even as I’m complaining and combining weeks’ worth of awfulness into one fictitious day to make a point, I realize things could be WAY harder. I could be sitting helplessly by my baby’s side in the NICU, for instance. Or taking him to specialist after specialist to figure out what’s wrong with him. Or even going it alone without any help or support at all.

I still don’t know what the heck that person was smoking when she wrote that being a mom is not hard. Maybe her kids are inert and silent. Maybe she sticks them in front of the TV all day while she does her nails. Maybe in her spare time she enjoys breaking rocks in the hot sun while chained to a bunch of prisoners. Whatever. All I know is, I’m no longer afraid to admit that being a mom is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. And also, the best.

SHOUT OUT: To all you moms out there, new or not, HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY!!!