Elementary, Dear Watson.

Before I had kids, I thought that being a mom had to be pretty easy.  I ran a business, I could multi-task with the best of them, I had babysitting jobs through high school and college.  You feed ‘em, give ‘em something to do and put them to bed.  How hard could it be?

Lordy, Lordy.  That is, my friend, the dirty little secret that nobody tells you.  Being a mom is freakin’ hard work.

And with each additional child, the work involved just increases exponentially.

It is a mind-numbing onslaught of snot, cheerios, poop, vomit, cheerios, dirty laundry, mud, earthworms – did I mention the cheerios?

You are constantly calling upon skills that you didn’t know that you had…  and not just the CIA type stuff that I posted about earlier. 

You learn to wipe up puke and vomit while you can barely stand yourself.  You learn that you can clean up the same room two, three times a day and not blink.  You find that you are able to keep a straight face while your little princesses giggle and say things like, "Katie, I just made a great fart."  You are suddenly able to draw pictures when you thought you had no artistic talent, hold a tune when you can’t believe you can sing and dance like crazy when you think you have absolutely no energy.

Even more impressive, you learn to ascertain information within a matter of seconds that all of the military operatives at Gitmo couldn’t extract.  I experienced the joy of playing mommy detective this week.  Katie didn’t wake up until 8:30 a.m.  That never happens.  It would be the equivalent of my grandfather driving by an all you can eat buffet.  Impossible.  So, I was a little concerned.  When she did wake up, she had what looked like a rash on her chin.  Upon closer inspection, I saw that it was dye – as in from medication.  Of course, Katie vehemently denied having been in the medicine.  And I finally got it out of her that she had gotten up in the middle of the night, climbed up to the medicine cabinet and taken a bottle of medicine (Charlie’s prescription Duradryl).  As she lay on the rug crying, I was trying to figure out how many that she had taken.  I kept telling her that I wasn’t angry, I just needed to know.  She finally came clean and I made a call to CVS.  All was fine, it was just an antihistamine and the amount that she took would just make her sleepy.  It was the kind of detective work that the "Cold Case Files" would have envied.

The whole episode was exhausting.  And par for the course.

Parenting is just exhaustive.  Is that even good grammar?  I’m too tired to figure it out.

Chris gives me agita about not remembering conversations.  What he – and many other non-moms (sorry dads, I don’t think it’s the same) don’t quite get is how many things moms are juggling at any one time.  I can’t remember what I decided about, say, brunch, because in the grand scheme of things, it’s not as important as potential drug overdoses, falls down the stairs, figuring out where "Duck" is hiding, remembering to buy diapers and wipes, buying the "right" kinds of cheese, uncovering where the girls put their favorite shoes and feed the baby…  It’s a lot.  And it just crowds your conscience.  There is practically no extra left…

So when you’re walking down the street and you see a woman with a slightly distant look in her eye.  She’s probably a mom.  She’s got a lot on her mind.  Give her a smile.  She’ll appreciate it.

Tagged as: CIA, motherhood, parenting