There’s a meme making the internet rounds that has given so many HOPE. I’ve read many posts revealing a mother’s deepest wishes for their children and thought-provoking posts about identity in the confusing time of new motherhood. They are heartwarming and inspiring. This is not one of those.
I hope to stop chastising myself for potty training my son so young because 15 months later he is still dropping deuces in his Baby Bjorn plastic crapper.
I hope that one day when I decide to go to bed after midnight because I can’t pry myself away from Twitter, that my children will not conspire to wake up at 530am soaked in urine (yes, both of them).
I hope to stop sticking a diaper wipe deep in the recesses of my daughter’s vagina and coming up shit streaked.
I hope that I will stop saying, to no one in particular, that at 18-months my son knew every single letter of the alphabet, upper and lower case, along with a vocabulary of 80 words, and yet my daughter communicates in a series of clear and concise grunts.
(I hope to stop blaming myself for that.)
I hope that one day I can serve something more nutritious than cream cheese and my kids will eat it.
I hope that one day, when I’m at BlogHer and my husband texts me a picture of the kids having fun and laughing, I will not automatically think to myself “that dress hasn’t fit C in 3 months,” and “where did he even FIND that?”
I hope to go eight SECONDS on the computer without hearing “Mommy, mommy, mommymommymommymommymommy,” usually followed by a loud bang and crying. But alas, we aren’t there yet and I should check on those little runts.
I hope there’s no blood on my new duvet.