My husband took me away for our anniversary. It was a quick trip, not quite 24 hours, but it was still lovely - a much needed respite from the busy and chaotic of daily life.
And then we came home.
Two hours after arriving, I was cleaning spilled milk off the legs of my kitchen chairs, sweeping up ground in goldfish crumbs, and oh yes, cleaning poop out from in between the floorboards of the hall bathroom. That last incident, had I not been coming off of 22 hours of uninterrupted husband love might just have DONE. ME. IN.
There is nothing glamorous about this work that we mothers do. It's gritty and hard and quite often utterly and completely disgusting. It frazzles our nerves and tries our patience and pushes us to the very edge of our sanity.
But then they sleep. They sleep and we sleep and they hug is in the morning and they draw us a picture and leave a sticky kiss on our cheek and then someone is kind and another learns something new and we catch a glimpse of the good that we do and for a moment God smiles down upon us all and we REALIZE how necessary we really are.
And that is why we can roll up our sleeves and get to the poop. Even when it figuratively (and quite literally) stinks.
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"What did you last blog about?" he asked.
"My feet," I answered.
Then he said, "Your feet? You blogged about your feet? And you're wondering why people are quitting?"
Um, okay. Maybe not. They DO hurt though, and I got some good advice through the comments, so blog about my feet? Why, yes. Yes I will.
