Dear Mother

This is a cool project.

Here's mine.

Dear Mother,

I’m tired. Will I ever not be tired?

I have the new mom feeling. I just had my third baby, a boy. I know this feeling. I remember it so well. Taking the kids out of the house seems like such a huge accomplishment. Never mind the fact that I didn’t shower.

I just need one thing from the grocery store. I decide to walk, it’s just two blocks. The fresh air will do us good. I get us all dressed and in sweatshirts. We get the stroller out of the van. And take the sweatshirts back in the house. I forgot we live in Texas and it is 60 degrees and warm out.

The baby is fussing, the two year old is quiet, looking at a book and the 4 year old is talkative. I’m starting to sweat.

I decide to stop in a second hand store next to the grocery store. I want to try on a pair of jeans, second hand that cost $98. They don’t go past my thigh.

The baby is still fussing, the two year old still quiet and the 4 year old a little too rambunctious for the store owner. I take the baby out and cradle him in my arm, push the stroller and instruct the 4 year old to hang on to the stroller handle.

We haven’t made it to the grocery store yet.

We walk through the grocery store, while I give many warnings about not skipping through the store and be careful of the displays. I’m still sweating.

I find my one item after looking in the same aisle for what felt like 5 minutes. Pay for it and get out.

The baby is asleep, I put him back in the stroller and we start our walk home.

I got the wrong thing.

I’m giving myself permission to not finish folding the laundry; instead I will enjoy my newborn as he snuggles on my chest. I’m giving myself permission to not vacuum, instead I will read a book to my 2 and 4 year old. I’m giving myself permission to not dust the living room, instead I will play cars. I’m giving myself permission not to compare myself to that other mother; I don’t really know her or her struggles. I’m giving myself permission to not make that special bread, my husband isn’t. I’ll go back to the store when he gets home.

Love,

Kristy