12 Things A Mother Is NOT

To my dearly mistaken children:

Over the past five and a half years, you have developed a skewed vision of my job description. When I signed up for a lifetime career as "mommy," I wasn't prepared to add numerous new skills to my resume, skills such as expert nose-wiper and dependable garbage-disposal.

That said, I totally understand your confusion. At times, I have openly volunteered myself for each and every one of these tasks. However, you need to understand that I did not sign an ironclad contract to be available at all times for each and every one of these menial jobs.

While I do love you with every ounce of blood flowing through my overly-exhausted body, your bodily fluids and tiresome demands for "right now!" are not as endearing. So, for the time being, please view this as a letter of resignation from the following duties:

1. Wipe rag. My shirt may be white, but it was not made by Kleenex. Next time you are in need of a tissue, I will be happy to point you in the direction of the nearest box.

Read the rest here.

Her First Day

Last night I packed her new Hello Kitty lunchbox carefully- cucumbers, cherries, yogurt, and a peanut butter sandwich cut into bite-sized hearts and flowers, hoping the hearts would remind her that she is loved.  Somehow, it didn't seem enough.

This morning I woke up with my alarm and tip-toed into her room to gently kiss her awake.  To my disappointment, she was already up and excited to start the day.  Still, I wasn't quite ready.

After a hearty breakfast she changed into her new dress, and allowed me to brush her hair without fuss.   We filled her backpack with her lunch, her water bottle, and a spare change of clothes, all clearly labeled with permanent marker.  And, then I threw in a huge chunk of my heart, careful to not let her see.

My husband and I loaded her, and all her gear, into the car and drove to school.  Kids from kindergarten through fifth were gathered on the courtyard.  On the far side of the yard an energized ball of chatter dominated the group as the older children reacquainted with friends.  On the near side, the five-year-old's held tightly to their parents hands trying to mask their nervous expressions.

The bell rang and her class walked in a single line to their new room, and she gripped my hand with a little more determination.  When we reached her classroom door, we hugged her, whispering our declarations of love and pride.

And then she grabbed her friend's hand and skipped into kindergarten.  She's ready, and I may be tomorrow.  I am no longer Married with Toddlers.  I am now Married with Toddler.