You know what I discovered? Single mom is NOT a good look on
me. It looks greasy and disheveled and braless; clad in yoga pants and
baby food laden shirts, all while too exhausted to really care. Maybe this is why people get married before breeding: No, sir. You cannot leave. There is this piece of paper that requires you to still call me pretty even though I have poop in my hair!
Two weeks ago I flew to Indiana to help my sister because her
husband had been in the hospital all week (with they didn’t know what) and she
had no help. She has three children: three year old twins and an 11 month old. Suffice to say, I assumed she would be falling
apart and needing family and an extra two hands.

I’ve decided when I have children I’m just going to give them to my sister for two years and then take them back once they’re all properly calm and awesome and just wait in their cribs smiling at me until I’m ready to wake up. That's what us that are 31 and childless like to think it is like anyway. Otherwise no one would ever breed, right?
So my day as a single SATM looked like this: Put
the eldest in front of the TV with raisins and milk. Change the 11 month old; feed
the 11 month old. My sister took the keys to the backdoor, so I climb over the fence to feed the dogs. Then head back to the kitchen and start breakfast for the twins.
Pick out outfits for school. Wake up the younger twin, change her, and position
her on the couch to out-groggy herself before breakfast. Finish making breakfast and
feed the twins; clean up the babes and
their trays. Give the eldest her clothes to get dressed; help her. Dress the
other twin. Dress the baby. I am still in yoga pants, no bra and my now greasy hair
is dangling from whatever half-assed bun I slept in. I consider taking a shower, but at this point it is five to 12 and I know that the bus comes at 12:30 and
the last thing I want is to miss the bus. I put off my shower until just one
child is loose. I go to clean the kitchen. I hear a THWAP! The baby got out of
her Bumbo chair and fell off the couch onto hardwood. Whoops. I react
accordingly, which is to say I didn’t react at all and just picked her up and
took her to the kitchen with me, which immediately calmed the surprised terror
off her face.
Whew. Crisis averted.
I tell the older one to go pee. For whatever reason, getting
her to pee is an incredible struggle. (Although I still don't condone "so-and-so went on the potty!" facebook posts, I get it. A little. Not enough that I think it should continue to be public knowledge, but a little.) So I turn off the television and entice
her that it can be put back on once she goes. She does. I tell her to put on
her socks and shoes. She gets the right feet. Go her. I put socks and shoes on
the younger twin who is now so full of blueberries, bananas and scrambled pizza eggs (I don't know, it seemed like a good idea at the time) that sitting
still is just about the last thing she is interested in doing. Ten hyperbolic
minutes later we’ve got shoes on both kids. It's 12:25p. I stare out of the door for the
next 15 minutes waiting for my shower -- I mean the bus. It's 10 minutes late,
but I feel a bit of success in accomplishing my first real goal of the day which is to just get them on the damn bus. It felt like a huge fucking victory at that point. I
encourage the eldest to get on the bus. The younger twin is in her own world
and not listening, so – with the baby on my hip – I grab the twin from the
porch, put her on the other hip, get her backpack and carry both to the bus. I hand off the child and the
pack and explain I’m the aunt when they think I'm the mom. Either I'm doing something right or I'm just looking the part. But, who cares bye now because I’d like a shower. I head back in
and, with the baby still on my hip, get a glimpse in the mirror.
So into the car we go. When I pick up the twins, I’m two minutes late. The eldest screams my name joyfully. We head out. She then begins to cry and scream for someone to help her when the teacher picks her up because she is refusing to walk through the parking lot. I think, "Oh shit. They're going to think I'm stealing these children!" Everything became fine when she got to grab onto my shoulder as I carried the other two to the car. Aww. She wanted ME?! I melt. Once in the car,
she’s still upset so I ask if she’d like a milkshake – mostly because her
auntie wanted a burger and shake all day, but hey, two for one – she says yes and by the time I get
to Steak and Shake, she’s asleep.
We get back and I put the asleep one on the couch. (Oh, did I
forgot to mention her kids also sleep through damn near everything? It’s very convenient.)
I feed the younger twin her burger while I put the baby back in her crib to
nap. Then the younger twin was super hyperactive in my face – which might have
been the milkshake I’d given her – but I figured was her different little way
of saying she was tired, so I put her in her bed. She fell asleep. Suddenly I
noticed ALL OF THE BABIES WERE ASLEEP! Holy shit this is great. I can take over Netflix! An episode of Parks and Recreation later, my sister came home
to a clean house with sleeping babies and when she walked in the door said, “Wow.
You’re good.”
THANK YOU! But
fuck man, good is really difficult. And it makes me realize that I’m totally
okay being childless for quite a while longer. Even the logistics of getting a
simple cup of coffee are completely elevated to the level of “fuck it, water wine is
fine” when it involves strapping little humans into seats and shit. Our mom was still at my sister's when I called yesterday to talk about my
going back this weekend and even she said, “I don't know how [your sister] does it. I have no idea how I did this with you three! And I really have no idea how your grandmother did it with five of us!!”
Me neither mom, but thank you. Holy shit. And thank you.*
*Mothers are fuckin' superheros.
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