Gianna had about 18 or so of her friends come over for a gift exchange a few days before Christmas. Last time she had her large group of friends over, I stressed out too much. Cleaning places people wouldn’t even go, overdoing it on the food, and worrying about the impression our house would make. This time, I said eff it.  I let G clean most of the house, with my only expectation that our bathrooms didn’t resemble a men’s urinal.

While Gianna cleaned, I decorated a little and then ran to the store. I wanted to get some things for the cocoa bar and drink station, and Gianna requested a can of beans as a gag gift for her friend. I didn’t write beans on my shopping list because it was the main reason I went to the store.

Arriving at Target (eck), I was in immediate shock at the number of people there. It was mid-day Thursday. Yes, it was the week before Christmas but good God don’t people work during the day anymore?!  Is everyone off now before the holiday??? The store was so damn busy and with all the bustle I ended up forgetting the damn beans. 

I get back home, beanless. Scarlett was in the kitchen. She had cleaned up and organized the paper products and hot cocoa bar. I could tell she was a little stressed out. Not that tiny chores like this are her tipping point but she had been anxious the past week or so leading up to this party. She didn’t want to be the younger, annoying sister that was hanging out with all the older kids. She wasn’t sure she’d belong. As the minutes counted down to the party start time, I think she was getting more anxious.

Yesterday I was walking through the produce section at Sam’s Club. I had decided to not change out of my pajama pants when I woke up that day. So, it felt like I was gliding more so than walking as I maneuvered my way around the display of pineapples and towards the meat coolers. Walking in public in your pajamas is extremely relaxing yet it also induces a small tinge of anxiety. Because you know people are looking at you and thinking you’re either a hot mess or its pajama day somewhere. Looking back, maybe the fact that I was in PJ pants allowed for what happened next. Perhaps being in pajama pants made me even more approachable. Perhaps the PJ pants are what got me noticed in the first place.

Pushing Evie in the abnormally large shopping cart, I headed towards the meat coolers and for a brief second, I made eye contact with a woman who was standing about 10 feet in front of me, parked near the sushi. Let’s call her Carol. Carol was talking to a man who I assumed she knew based on their interaction. In our brief locking of eyes, Carol stared me in the face and said, “Mary!”

Not a question that she might know me. No hesitation that I may not be Mary. Carol was certain I was this person. But my name’s not Mary.

What kind of sadistic, childless, asshole makes a bathroom door that unlocks when you turn the door handle?!?! Just the damn door handle! The lock and the handle are separate FOR A REASON. Like, let’s say, to protect parents from exposing themselves to strangers because their toddler opened the door on their own while said parent was pee trapped on the toilet. That is why the lock is nested above the handle, strategic inches away from a two-year old’s grubby, evil hands.

What’s led me to this rant about doorknobs? This:

I don’t know if there’s a single day that has gone by, since becoming a mother 15 years ago, that I have NOT ended the day without some bodily fluid on my clothing. Most of the time, this fluid is not my own. And, I have to be ok with that.  

In the early baby days, I suppose that’s normal and expected. You change diapers and shit happens (literally). You burp your baby and they spit up on your shirt. The baby num-nums on your shoulder, getting spit puddles everywhere. All of that is to be expected. 

Then, the unexpected. Like while wiping your toddler’s butt, you get poop on your sleeve. Because why didn’t you remember to roll your damn sleeve up before wiping their ass? It’s not like you are a rookie ass-wiper. You’ve been wiping butts, including your own since the 80’s. Yet, there you are, shit on your sleeve, wondering what you should do. Change your shirt? Now roll up your sleeve and just continue through the day like you don’t have crap on you? Yes, these thoughts happen. Because sometimes, as a parent, you don’t even have time to change your shitty shirt. 

Having a fourth child, that’s not crazy, right? I go back and forth about this idea and wonder if I’m batshit crazy to even entertain this thought. There’s never a perfect time to have a child. Just like there’s never a perfect time to get a puppy. You just do it, knowing that the road ahead will be filled with laughter, tears, money bleeding out of your pockets, more gray hair, and a lot of mess. 

I am so happy with my three girls. Blessed to have them when I know some people can’t have any. I’m already pulled in too many directions that another child would further complicate an already complicated life. 

I don’t NEED more. Life would be simpler without more. I might maintain a more healthy level of sanity without more. 

But…

I think Evie had her first dream last night. Well, in her case, she would probably call it a nightmare if she could. From behind the gate, I hear her say “momma!” But she didn’t scream my name like someone was lighting her on fire like she had been doing for the past few months. It was a sad mixed with angry “momma.” She didn’t normally call me like that in the morning.