There are a lot of things you don’t realize when you first become a mom.
Like that you won’t have anything in common with your old friends, and when you try to make new friends, you are so tired you have trouble making an intelligent conversation.
Nobody tells you that there are no more quick trips to the grocery store or that trying to see a movie reqires that strategy and organization of a military general planning a hostage rescue.
Nobody tells you that the belt on your vacuum cleaner will break just after your child dumps peas onto the living room carpet fifteen minutes before company shows up.
Nobody tells you that you will never have another minute alone in the bathroom, or that as soon as your son figures out how to unbuckle his car seat, every car ride will be filled with screaming.
It’s been one of those weeks. My husband has been busy. I’ve been exhausted and wanting a friend, another mom, to commiserate with. My son has been into everything. I’ve been alone a lot. I tried a few things, like story hour at the library, in order to get out of the house, but all of them turned into a disaster. Going to work this week was a savior, a vacation.
And then I had a patient grasp my hand, ask me how far along I was. Seven months, I said, and I have an almost-two-year-old at home. She lay back on the stretcher, closing her eyes, smiling at the memories.
“Tough years,” she said. “When they are all small. But,” she said, opening her eyes and looking at me. “But these are the best years of your life.”
And all I have to do is look into this little face, and I agree.