Where’s that Mother’s Day nap I waited all year for?

After almost 7 years of marriage, I’ve been pregnant 5 times. I miscarried twice, and successfully gave birth to 3 children. I’m a stay-at-home mom who homeschools and, when time allows (almost never), I write (novels or blog posts) when I should probably be cleaning something.

At times, my sanity hangs by a thread.

It is at those times that my children decide to tightrope-walk that thread, leap into the air, and bounce off the walls.

For weary moms, Mother’s Day comes with hopes and dreams of 5-star pampering, peace, quiet, and rest. A nap, perhaps? (Respectable pause for a moment of delirious laughter.)

After a busy night cleaning up from my oldest child’s sixth birthday party, I was still awake at midnight, albeit with bleary red eyes, to see Mother’s Day in. I was awake again at about 3 a.m., for a snack–not for me, mind you, but for my darling little 5-month-old nursing baby. A few more hours of sleep, and my alarm went off.

Happy Mother’s Day!

I tore myself from my exceptionally cozy bed, splashed my face with cold water, and dared to peak at my eyes in the mirror (never a good idea). Puffy. Shadowed. Still bloodshot red. I was really hoping that would go away after a restful night’s sleep.

Oh, restful.

That explained it.

I grabbed a bowl of cold cereal and managed bites between hurriedly dressing for Mass. My oldest child was already awake, playing contentedly with his new Legos, but his response was not contented when I told him to get ready for church.

My middle child (3-year-old future opera singer) actually woke up without making sure her voice box still worked at top decibel, so I nursed baby and then helped middle child into her dress. I noticed it was getting too short and I’d need to buy her new dresses soon.

My husband and I wanted to make it to Confession that morning, and getting out the door on time is never an easy feat to coordinate. At last, kids climbed into the van while I buckled baby in her car seat. While doing so, I realize too late that she needed a diaper change.

In church, we saw my uncle and cousin and they whispered a happy Mother’s Day to me, my first of the day. My husband, with an “I forgot” look on his face, then whispered the same.

In the confessional, I heard my baby fussing through the “sound proof” door as I confessed, including my shortcomings as a mother. Father noted that children often try us as we tried our parents before us. This brought to mind how I was notorious for screaming as a child and how my great-grandmother couldn’t bear to be in the same room with me. I thought of my middle child and smiled. Father reminded me to turn to the Blessed Mother in prayer, and she would help me with my daily trials.

With freshly cleansed soul, I was recharged, renewed, and ready to face the day. I stepped out for the baby hand-off from my husband as he headed for his turn in the confessional.

I brought baby and middle child into the basement for the overdue diaper change and a bathroom break. Amazingly, baby’s diaper hadn’t leaked so I didn’t have to change her outfit. A blessing, since I realized that the one in the diaper bag probably didn’t fit her anymore.

After reminding middle child that church is a place for quiet, we walked back up. The Rosary had commenced, and middle child joined in enthusiastically (loudly) at the wrong time. But she’s still learning.

Before my mind had a chance to turn to prayer, I realized it was time to pick my oldest child up from Catechism class. Not knowing where my husband was, I headed out with my middle child and baby into a sunny day that was heating up quickly. I located my oldest child with my husband and my cousin and his family.

When asked my plans for Mother’s Day, I replied that I planned to rest, even as I knew that was not likely to happen. My cousin commented that I looked tired. Ah, yes, always the compliment one likes to hear. Was it the puffy, purple bags under my eyes, or the bloodshot redness that had tipped him off? Perhaps both.

Meanwhile, oldest child announced, “I don’t want to make my First Communion next year.” This was followed by, “I caught a toad yesterday, and I brought it in the van.”

I blinked. I hadn’t realized that the screened container he’d brought had contained a toad. As I tried to roll up my sweater sleeves while holding baby, something else clicked. “Honey, that toad can’t sit in the van in this heat. He’ll die.”

So my kids and my husband rescued the toad and placed its little carrying case in the shade before returning to church.

When Mass began, discord erupted when middle child didn’t like the way her brother “leaned” in the pew at her. So of course he leaned some more. My husband then split them up.

From the Holy Gospel, Father read, “A woman, when she is in labour, hath sorrow, because her hour is come; but when she hath brought forth the child, she remembereth no more the anguish, for joy that a man is born into the world.”

My baby fussed. Dropping my nursing cover on over my head, it snagged my chapel veil and tugged it off, throwing my hair in my face. I felt sorry for subjecting baby to the heat under the cloth tent, but she nursed to sleep despite the occasional “bump,” courtesy of her curious sister.

Baby soon woke up. My husband held her and I tried to give my attention to middle child, who was thrilled to have my lap to herself as we looked at a religious picture book. But when I moved into Communion line, she cried, “Hold me!”  So I heaved all 30+ pounds of her up on my hip; I was more than happy to, as long as she didn’t perform her trademark protest that would shake the church.

The fact that we made it through the entire Mass without one of us having to leave the pew to go downstairs was astounding.

We traveled home with the toad, who was not looking too well, so my husband and oldest child let the toad free in the back yard while middle child screamed she didn’t want to let it go.

My husband then took fussy baby from me so I could make pancakes with middle child. (Yes, I managed to get her to wash her toady hands first, phew!)

During the meal, oldest child expanded on his “I don’t want to make my First Communion next year” comment. “I don’t want to wait. I want to make it this year!”

He then delivered an adorable handmade Mother’s Day card to me, and I hung it proudly on the fridge with an alphabet letter magnet.

After lunch, I nursed baby and put her down for a nap, then dared to lie down on my bed. I didn’t bother to pull down the shades, though, because…sure enough, middle child quickly found me, demanding, “Mom, get up!”

With a sleepy sigh, I mumbled, “What’s Daddy doing?”

“Sleeping on the couch. Get up, Mom!”

Well, my dear husband did have a cold. I heaved myself up. Middle child wanted to play in the backyard sandbox, so I watched her as I puttered in the house and on the patio, still picking things up from yesterday’s party. I took a sip of middle child’s “sand soup” and declared it the best I’d ever tasted.

I then discovered poor toad, captive once more, in a plastic sandbox bucket. Unfortunately, he lay belly-up and stiff. Dead. I dumped him out near some trees. Middle child proceeded to find him and play with him.

Clouds were rolling in, but since I’d promised earlier that we could go to a park, it was time to get moving.

The rain held off long enough for baby’s very first park swing ride, and for me to play tag with my oldest and roll my ankle. He then served me dandelion “ice cream” made from freshly plucked weeds.

As the rain hit, we drove for a real ice cream (technically, frozen custard) treat at Culver’s. The drive-through would have been easiest with three kids, but the two older ones suddenly realized that going inside through the rain would be loads more fun, so in we trouped.

Since it was dinner time, we ordered “real” food first, along with a couple strawberry shakes for the kids, which they ended up not really liking, so my husband drank them, and by that time everyone else was full and baby was fussing, so we left. No custard for me, after all.

At home, I loaded the dishwasher, hand-washed serving platters from yesterday’s party, and endured dear baby’s screams as she lay not playing on her play mat amid the colors and lights and music that failed to captivate her as much as Mommy’s arms.

When baby had screamed long enough, my husband came to the rescue. I snatched a quick shower, gave baby a bath, nursed her, said goodnight to the other two kids, and joined my husband downstairs for a little TV. But first, I grabbed a piece of leftover cake and topped it with freezer-burned ice cream. It was no Culver’s, but it wasn’t dandelion ice cream, either.

My special day of being pampered was drawing to a close.

Weary, I readied myself for bed, a bed which had been calling to me all day, and then baby cried for me.

Another nursing session began. In the dimness of the nightlight, in the glider chair, I rocked and held my baby’s tiny, solid warm body. Her little hand closed around my thumb in a tight, dependent grip. After two miscarriages, this is the baby I thought I would never have, never hold.

In the peace and quiet, I listened to her breathing.

When she fell asleep, I gently laid her back in her crib. I tiptoed out of the nursery. My eyes still bloodshot, I said my prayers before bed.

For me, this had been a day much like any other.

I spend my days–14+ hour stretches–often alone with my kids. It can be tiring, tedious, stressful, and thankless. I’m referee, negotiator, teacher, and counselor. I change them, dress them, discipline them, clean them, and feed them.

I also hug and kiss them and love them with all I have, and I watch them grow. For now, they are near me.

They won’t always be.

Though it seems eons away, one day in a not-so distant future, they will set foot out the door.

They will say goodbye.

It’s after midnight and Mother’s Day has ended.

Six years ago exactly, this is when the inklings of my very first labor began. I smile. I sleep.

A couple hours later, my baby calls for me once again.

I get up and go to her.

Because Mother’s Day or not, I am still a mother, doing all the motherly things I do all year.

My nap can wait, and sleep can wait.

Every day is Mother’s Day.

I will be a mother while I can.