I watched her as she walked out of her front door and down the driveway to her car.  Briefcase in hand, she was beautifully dressed, impeccably made-up, her hair swept into an attractive style.  She looked competent and professional.

Out for my daily fifteen-minutes-of-freedom run, I was feeling like a frumpy, dumpy housewife, dressed in clothes I had picked out from the dirty laundry.  I sighed and tried to remember the last time I had managed to get the whole shower, hair, make-up, clothing thing all together, tried to remember the last time I had felt competent at much besides the manufacturing of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and the application of Band-Aids.  When was the last time I had actually gone off to a job, to adult conversation, to a place where six little hands didn't start eroding my work the second it was completed?  When was the last time I had actually been able to even complete a phone call without having to extract my son's happily splashing baby hands from a toilet because I turned my back for two seconds to dial a number?  When was the last time I could even use the bathroom myself without having to holler through the door to break up the pushing match between two year old twins that started the second I closed the door?

I felt a definite pang of longing, as I enviously watched this woman glide out of her driveway to an adult haven were I fantasized she would have a perfect day devoid of hassles.

She waved.  It was then that I saw a tiny toddler arm waving in return. The way I was positioned, all I could see was that little arm waving, and not the owner that was attached to it.  It was easy to imagine one of my three at the other end.

I thought of what I could miss today if I were carrying her fleetingly coveted briefcase.  Ten dirty diapers, multiple screaming tantrums, a lot of whining, some pouting, peanut butter and jelly smeared over the entire kitchen floor, about seventy loads of laundry, and a gallon of yogurt dripping from the countertop it was flung onto.  A number of things, really, that I frequently think I wouldn't mind missing. But what about all the funny conversations, the mincing baby steps, the shared joke, the adoring glance, the eager face, the spontaneous hug, the lisped "I dove you, Mommy"?

My envy dissolved like gelatin powder in warm water.

Some days I do wish this whole stay-at-home motherhood thing was like a salad bar and I was free to pick and choose, omit and exchange.  'Hmm, I'll think I'll have a nice big helping of meaningful bonding today, and I'll sprinkle it a large ladle of personal development, and top it off with a scoop of warm fuzzies.  And, yuck, I'll just totally bypass that vat of crying-biting-hair-pulling-endless-housework, because I just don't have any appetite for it today."  But of course it's not.  Motherhood is much more like the fixed price meal at the fancy restaurant.  There's only one option.   The exquisitely delicious quail is smothered in mushroom sauce, and you've never been a fan of fungus. It's a package deal.  The sublime moments of parenting are inextricably wound with the web of the mundane and the messy.

 

I continued my run, and as I rounded the corner to home I saw I had a welcoming party.  One little boy arm was waving in greeting, seemingly detached from its owner.  As I got closer I could see the owner too, hopping excitedly up and down to see me returning.

And regardless of what the day might dish out, I was glad to think that today I would be staying for whatever was on the menu.