Monday, May 7, 2018

Things I Don't Want to Hear, See, or Smell on Mother's Day This Year

Motherhood means indescribable love.

It means transcendent joy.

And it means complete and utter sensory overload.

When you're a mom, every morning is like being dumped out of bed into the middle of the running of the bulls in Spain, except there's a lot more crying and you're supposed to make pancakes at the same time.

Motherhood can be described in two words: sensory overload.   {posted @ Unremarkable Files}

Do you know what the touched-out, overwhelmed masses of mamas want for Mother's Day?

We don't want to hear anything. We don't want to hear crying. Or FAKE crying. No long, rambling tattles about something a sibling did 4 and a half years ago. We don't want to hear the word "snack." We don't want to hear the sound of a gallon of milk exploding on contact with the floor, a bin of Legos being dumped out after we just cleaned house, or anything crashing or breaking in the next room.

We don't want to smell anything. We don't want to smell poop, sweaty feet, poop, stinky burps in our faces, poop, or things burning. Or poop. No thank you to the rancid sports equipment and cleats so pungent they could take down a full-grown bull moose. We don't want to smell lunch boxes on Monday morning with Friday's leftovers still inside. Forgive us, but we don't like smelling the breath of someone who swore they brushed their teeth but obviously hasn't touched a tube of toothpaste since April.

We don't want to touch anything.  We don't want to handle soiled clothing or carry it around in our purses like some kind of demented currency. We don't want to feel smashed raisins from the kitchen floor sticking to our feet. We don't need to find out with our thighs that the toilet seat is wet, and then step in a puddle of maple syrup a few minutes later. Basically, we don't want to feel anything sticky or wet that isn't supposed to be, including ourselves. Especially ourselves.

We don't want to see anything. We don't want to see the sock factory explosion formerly known as our house. There are socks on the stairs. Socks in the bathroom. Tiny socks in the toybox and on top of the piano and inside the potted plant. We just can't take the sight of any more socks. We don't want to see our decorative throw pillows on the floor, every outdoor toy we own scattered on the lawn like sprinkles on a cake, or Nerf gun darts in every conceivable crevice of our property. And please shield our eyes from the crumb buffet on the floor of the minivan.

We don't want to taste anything. We are tired of tasting leftover chicken nuggets and chubby fingers of questionable cleanliness that were shoved in our mouths. We don't want eat taste soggy Goldfish crackers just because our toddlers offered them to us and said "So dee-wicious," and yet we do. (Why must they be so cute?)

The point is that motherhood wears out our senses and then it wears them out again. Flowers or breakfast in bed are nice gestures, but what we really want for Mother's Day is 90 minutes in a sensory deprivation tank.

After that, we promise to come back to the sticky kisses and is-it-chocolate-or-is-it-poop predicaments that no doubt await us  and we will love (almost) every minute of it. We swear.

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Unremarkable Files

4 comments:

  1. Love this. When my 9 year old asked me what I wanted for mothers day I said "a clean house and for no one to fight" and I was serious.

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  2. Find out with our thighs that the toilet seat is wet 😂😂😂

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