When One Gets Hit by a Wheel Barrow.

 I was terribly wrong.

 I had this secret idea in my mind before I had babies.

When I'd see mothers with their children:

fussing, whining, smarting, tired, frazzled...

I would look at them and think to myself,

"Not me.

When I become a mother...."

And so I did.

 Violet didn't help my mental state.

 She was a perfect baby:

never cried, understood the word "no" from when the umbiblical cord was cut,

was content to play and look at books in her play pen for three hours straight,

and would smile at me when she was hungry.

I was good.

Then Levi came along.

He was nary as good as his sweet older sister,

but he was,

after all,

a boy.

He was a bit slower:

with walking,

with speech,

with learning the word "no,"

but also with learning how to make messes.

He was content to be pulled around in the wagon all day,

the only muscles he moved were the ones that opened and closed his eyelids.

Then came Lillie.

 Let's just say Lillie burst my
"I'm the best mother in the world" mentality,

pretty much at birth.

 I can remember that first night,

exhausted,

relieved that labor was done,

my pillow fluffed and my only thought was of sleep.

 Then the nurse brought her in.

"Here.

Feed her."

"But I just did...

um,...

an hour ago,"
looking at my clock through bloodshot eyes.

"Well, she won't stop screaming.

Do something with her."

The nurse's out-stretched arms were full of my wailing, thrashing newborn.

 "She's yours."

Yes.

Yes, she is.



Lillie is definitely the artist of my crew,

or,
at least,
she thinks so.

Her artwork causes me much consternation


and her big sister as well.

Oh, the wailing she has caused.



She's also one who thinks that clothing is optional...

and that the sole purpose of socks

is to make them individuals.

Her dolls viewpoint on the subject of dressing,

likewise.


Her mother's decorations are primarily put around the house

to be used as weapons against her brother's head

when he tries to play with something of hers,

or sips from her juice cup,

or eats one of her noodles.

My poor boy.

Good thing a mother's kisses still cure all wounds

and that Lillie's strength is still not too dangerous.

Her position in all things

is that she is instantly everywhere.

even when I'm capturing my photos.

Her job seems to be to rectify situations that are not right to her:

like the heater.

She seems to think the windows need the most heat;

the magnets should be always on the floor;

and all juice should be at her disposal,

disposal happening when she tries to steal it.

She puts her poor mother into a constant state of cleaning up,

and when the stolen, spilled juice happens to be concentrate,

it just means concentrated sticky.

No one is off limits to her household management system.

No one.

And she must supervise everything,


including her big sister's homework.

(And yes, I am always cold: the hat helps).

All people must be monitored by her.

This child,

this little brown-haired,

brown-eyed specimen of a wee lass

has made it her full time mission

to instruct me

in the finer traits of humility,

patience,

patience,

patience,

and humility.

My other children are learning to adapt, too:

to take an occasional wheel barrow to the head

and learn how to forgive.

But of course,
patience and consistency do come to fruition at rare moments;
and the rewards of seeing a child...

tackling her brother with kisses,

and saying,

"I'm sorry I hit you with Mommy's wheel barrow,

Lebi.

I love you,"

makes the marker stains,

magnet messes,

damaged school work,

heated windows,

and wayward socks

seem much smaller an issue than they were before.

Even if it is

just for a moment.

Linking up to:
Time-warp-wife
Gnowfglins.com: Simple-lives-Thursday
Wearethatfamily: works-for-me Wednesday
Savvysouthernstyle: Wow-us-Wednesdays
My3boybarians.com: Sweet-shot-Tuesday
Abowlfulloflemons
Aboverubies.net: Domestically-divine-tuesday