Portrait of a Mother

If I could draw at all (I can't) or paint (not in the least) I would do a portrait of a Mother. I would put her in her baby's room. All pink and soft and frilly. She would be wearing pajamas. Decent ones not the ones with the holes. She would be draped across the top rail of the crib. One arm resting on the top rail, her head laying atop that arm. The other arm would be inside the crib with a hand on her baby's back. Comforting her little one after a bad dream or during an illness. It would be dark night. Mom's hair would be draped over her face, her eyes closed, nearly asleep slouched on the rail of the crib.

Because that is what Mothers do. Down here in the trenches. Down here where it isn't all cute dresses and giggling babies. Down HERE where you've cried because you haven't had enough sleep. Down here where in a fit of this-makes-no-sense-at-all you've cried because you MISS getting up int he middle of the night and holding your sweet baby during a feeding. Down here where you've spent the better part of a year smelling like spit-up and forgetting how to put on your makeup. Where the house has slipped, the dust has piled up, the meals have become crap shoots, the laundry is so far behind you are still washing flannel and it's the middle of June, the toys have taken over and the coffee table is turned on its side being used as a baby gate. Down here.

In the trenches of Motherhood.

Where you are teaching one to not throw her plate on the floor and the other one is asking you EXACTLY how does the baby get INTO the Mommy. Where you realize yesterday your toddler was watching Thomas the Train but is standing here, nearly as tall as you and telling you what he wants for his 10th birthday. 10! Double digits! Down here where suddenly you realize you only have 8 summers left before college. And you panic.

I'm here. In the trenches. Hanging on to the crib rail. Trying to figure out how to make it all come together. How to do it all. Be it all. Feed them. Clothe them. Make memories with them. Soothing an overworked, over stressed husband. Vacuuming up the dog hair. Stepping on blocks or Legos depending on which room I'm in.

I hope that I am planting seeds while I'm down here in the trenches. That my tears whether happy or sad, are watering the flowers of tomorrow. That the roots of what we do here are strong and deep. The day will come when we'll be out of survival mode. I know that I will miss these times and this place in my life.

So, I'm digging into these trenches of Motherhood. Getting my hands dirty. I hope my work here is never done.