Potential

Reflecting on it, I found myself, 39 years old, in the kitchen of our old house.  My 8-year-old, Lucia, was setting the table, while my 5-year-old, Jack, had just come in from a mud fight.  Little baby Maya was strapped to my body underneath a baby sling, where she had full access to nurse anytime she chose.

I was making dinner, careful not to clip her head with a pan or wooden spoon. There were toys everywhere. Everyone was hungry and needed a bath. There was evidence of baking; another counter was full of something abandoned that involved Mod Podge.

I had just a few more ingredients to add before I put the heavy Le Creuset dish in the oven.  Two other kids were in the playroom.  I am not sure who they were, I just always had two extra kids around the house.

I looked at the clock, knowing Scott would be home soon from a challenging day of operating. I calculated the time he would need to work out, shower and get the antisceptic day and grumpiness off before he could sit with us and feel human again.

I guessed the time the dinner needed in the oven. How much time I would need  to boil the pasta, clean the lettuce, make the salad dressing.

I remember heading out to the garden, feeling that low, evocative, sun starting to set.  I tore the lettuce, plucked the cherry tomatoes, foraged from hiding a chubby cucumber with that stubble that promises crisp and full flavor. While in the garden, I took the time to water the thirsty basil, even hosing off Jack’s muddy body, and considered agreeing with him to skip his bath that night. I put the hose up to my face to cool myself down, then sprinkled a little soft spray toward baby Maya, who was delighted to feel the magical mist and looked like a Cabbage Patch doll plopped down in the dandelions. I washed off my bare feet, noting that a pedicure was a distant need or dream. Water always draws me back to my need for self-care.

Would I have time to go to the bathroom? Put the baby down and fix my hair?, Change my dirty milk-stained, mud-stained, cooking-stained shirt into a fresh sundress, pull back my wild hair, check my armpits, maybe even give a promising kiss to my still-young husband?

When Scott would walk in at the end of the  day, he would often start with a “Who are you?” To a kid running through his legs.  The playroom always looked like the end of the world and often had music or the tv playing a little too loud.   I set a low bar.  If nothing or no one broke that day, it was a good day.  It seemed I had a knack for chaos; my ADD, Mama mind was good for mothering, creating, and being in the moment.

Lots of moms had the Mac and cheese box ready and kids put to bed by 7.  Their counters were clean.  They did not eat after 7.  Not me. I had all four burners going, and dinner was the high point of the day, even if it was late to the table.

Somehow, it would all get done. The kids’ friends went home full and dirty, but happy, often with a goodie bag for their parents. My kids would sit at the table and eat what I made and laugh with food in their mouths.  Scott would slowly soften as they, one by one they made their sleepy way into his lap. He would always help clean up, often taking on the kitchen while the kids and I put away the toys and finally found their half-made beds.

The house was never quite clean enough, nor was I, but I had happy kids. They were free and bright and safe and loved. I was their mamma, and I woke up every day wanting to do my best.   Looking back now, I may have felt overwhelmed, disorganized, and messy, but in those moments, I was in many ways at my best. I didn’t know then, but I was at a high point in personal potential. I am grateful for that and was in good company with all my mamma friends out there.

So Happy Mother’s Day to all the mammas, grandmamas, the aunties, helpers, and the friends who pitched in.  I didn’t do it alone and I had a lot of help.

And without knowing it, I did a pretty good job.
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