The mom I want to be.

It's fall now, in that strange not-winter, but not-summer sort of way that fall has. We bundle the kids up to take them out in the mornings, their noses red and cheeks bright from the biting wind. And we find ourselves shedding layer after layer in the warm afternoon sun, basking in the warmth of the rays on our bare arms. It's the time of year to start drinking cider and baking bread, the time of year to stand on the heater vents in fuzzy socks and flannel pajamas. It's the time of year that brings peace and rest, quiet in the warmth of dark rooms with fireplaces crackling.

And yet the peacefulness that I'm waiting for so expectantly continues to escape me. Our days are crazy and our nights are late, there is no rest and no quiet. There are screaming kids fighting over noisy toys, there are corn dogs for dinner instead of steaming bowls of homemade soup. Instead of cozy nights blanketed with fleece and curled on the couch reading Horton Hatches the Egg, we spend our nights in a busy frenzy filled with arguing and scolding, crying and sharp words. And when the kids are asleep and the house is at rest, there is too much to do and not enough time.

This is maybe the way these years are, I guess. For us, anyway. These clingy, tear soaked years of angst and sadness, of frustration at having to share the toys, share the attention, share the love. These are the years of corn dogs and peanut butter sandwiches, of noise and sleeplessness. And I realize I am not the mom I want to be.


I love these boys more each day, more than I ever thought possible, yet my expectations cloud the picture. I long to spend cold winter evenings listenting to Dean Martin and stringing popcorn for the Chistmas tree, the smell of cinammon surrounding us. And instead I am a referee, a judge and jury to determine the just punishment for throwing a toy train at somebody's head. I corral boys in for dinner, in for a bath, in for story and bed, and it's all such a struggle somehow. By the time I have wrestled both kids into pajamas, I am exhausted and snippy, just hoping that Joshua will pick a short book so that I can check my email and get on with the night. I am not the mom I want to be.


And these days, these corn dog days, will end at some point, probably without my even realizing it. We'll be sitting around the fireplace one cold winter evening and I will wonder where my babies went, and maybe I won't remember that I wasn't the mom I wanted to be.