Kids wake up on Mother's Day. Therefore, they eat, use the bathroom, perhaps get sick, spill, and act like children. They should. Mother's Day is no exception.
I heard the chaos of too many hands and feet in the kitchen. Trying to find food in foreign territory. My territory. My land where I know where every little thing is. Tiny feet carrying shaky trays up the stairs. Fire alarm ringing. I smile. One boy still rebelling against Daddy's request to help. Middleson joining me in my bed with crumbly toast and pasty oatmeal. I envision bedtime later that night with oatmeal in my hair. But, this is fun. Yes, it really is. The discarded tray on the floor by my bed, the one with leftover ketchup, becomes a perfect target for Babyboy's foot. He smeared the ketchup on my carpet like a farmer with his muddy boots. I laughed. I belly laughed! Ironically the same weekend we tiled the master bathroom floor, the carpet is streaked with red. I couldn't stop laughing. THIS is Mother's Day! The mess. The crumbs. The noise. The pictures that I want so perfect to portray that my boys don't burp, or fight, or complain on Mother's Day. The pictures that show me smiling, never a frustration or ruffle in my feathers.