Have you ever noticed how one week can be so completely different from the one before it? I swear, this time last week I was all, I got this. The house was tidy, I was in a routine, the days were clicking along like highly organized clockwork. Life was a smooth ride, and I was the dog hanging its happy little head out the window in the breeze while “Free Bird” blasted from the car stereo.
Oh, wait. No, that was the week before that. Last week was awful.
Funny how it all ebbs and flows. One day I’m practically skipping along first thing in the morning to some fun activity with the girls, while SK shouts “Hurray! Hurray!” (she actually does this, and I want to remember it forever) and Quinn giggles at her big sister. The next, I’m still in pajamas at 2 p.m. because Saoirse’s been throwing the baby’s toys in the refrigerator and Quinn keeps clinging to my ankles, wailing up at me until I pick her up, prop her on one hip and try to stir the sauce without singeing her toes on the stove’s burner. One week I think I am the most absolute luckiest person in the whole free world, and the next I’m convinced that stay-at-home mothers can develop PTSD. The idea that I have any control over my life whatsoever makes me laugh that sort of high-pitched, manic giggle one would expect from a highly disturbed person right before she’s committed.
I’m really not complaining. For someone who always needed to feel in control of all aspects of her life, motherhood is like some sort of immersion therapy. I’ve resigned myself to the hard-to-swallow reality that I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing, I never truly have a grasp on any sort of lifestyle organization–despite those momentary moments of clarity–and I will most likely always end up changing a diaper in the back of a car, on my lap or on the edge of a sink in some public bathroom that may never have seen a bottle of Lysol in its existence. It’s just the way it goes. But my kids are happy, I laugh a lot more, and I can always wash my hands when I get home.