Kelly V. Photography blog

As I write this, it’s 1:57 a.m. on Wednesday night. No, wait, scratch that. Thursday morning.

I think. I’m not sure. I’m so bone-tired I might be off a week or two.

I’m awake because my 2-year-old son insists on sleeping with every car, truck and construction vehicle he owns. Hard plastic vehicles that come crashing out of his toddler bed onto the wood floor below as he flails around throughout the night. And despite our best efforts to turn off their battery-operated engines, a leg or arm placed in the precise spot will occasionally activate a series of simulated horns, wailing sirens or peeling tires.

And because I’m a mother, it’s impossible to sleep through any of it. Even the shortest and simplest of vehicle-related interruptions. Despite being down the hall with two closed doors separating us, my eyes immediately bolt open at the slightest indication that my assistance might be needed.

It could even be as simple as a cough or creak. That’s all it takes.

Some nights I determine intervention is required, but even if the sounds cease without causing anyone else to stir, my eyes remain open in the darkness as my brain’s engine automatically starts to warm up.

I forgot to pay the water bill. Did I remind Jerry that tomorrow is Allison’s eye appointment? I never checked the message on the answering machine downstairs. What if it was important? I should listen to it. Oh my gosh, my column’s due tomorrow. 

If I can come up with a few legitimate reasons to get up, resistance is futile. I know the likelihood of me relaxing enough to turn off my brain is slim to none when there are jobs to be done.

As I tiptoe downstairs using the flashlight app on my iPhone, it illuminates my way as well as a few obstacles. Cinderella’s white horse. Scattered blocks. A laundry basket.

Never did get to that laundry yesterday.

Arriving in the kitchen, I switch on the light. Despite constantly cleaning all day, every day, everywhere I look shows evidence of work to be done. The empty sippy cup that never made it into the dishwasher. Fourteen or so (hopefully pairs) of shoes in a pile by the back door where they seem to collect. Field trip permission slip on the fridge that needs to be signed and turned in by Friday.

Now where did the pen jar go? Seriously? 

Eventually, after circling the room and conquering a few tasks that give me a small sense of accomplishment, I make it to my desk, where more reminders sit. Water bill, check. Dialtone on the answering machine, perfect. Email, might as well.

But amid all the necessary tasks is evidence of my family. My crazy and wonderful family. A piece of computer paper with different shapes drawn deliberately in a pattern of silver crayon. A popsicle stick tinged purple on one end randomly shoved in my desk drawer with the paper clips. A photo of my kids taken about a year ago, arms encircling each other, mouths open and eyes squeezed shut in laughter.

It’s exhausting, this motherhood thing. The days are long. The work is never done. Privacy is a luxury. And sometimes after presenting my children with a hot meal, I get rewarded with an “Ew, yuck! I HATE THOSE POTATOES!” or “I wanted my eggs scrambled!”

Despite all that, I wouldn’t change it for the world. I know, even at 3:08 a.m. with impossibly heavy eyelids, that raising my kids is the most important work I’ll ever do. And, maybe, just maybe, someday I’ll be rested enough to miss being woken up in the middle of the night by a toy fire engine.

Until then, I’ll remind myself that mothers everywhere are struggling with the same impossibly high standards we set for ourselves. We can’t “do it all” despite our superhuman efforts.

For a few more years, at least, there’s always a strong possibility that I’ll discover a mess in the room I just cleaned. So I have to remember to let it go, cherish the important moments and try to forgive myself for my shortcomings. The work might never be done, but the laundry can always be washed tomorrow.

Chubby cheeks and trucks that beep don’t last forever.