The toy room window is smeared with a waxy film of strawberry-scented chapstick, a testament to the chaos within. On the floor lies a pink, lidless eos, now a fuzzy casualty of toddler antics.
Mega Bloks trucks zip through the air, despite my relentless pleas to “Stop throwing things!” My youngest sports a goose egg on his head, accompanied by a high-pitched wail that could easily shatter that chapstick-coated window. In the time-out chair, another toddler screams, his cries piercing enough to make my throat ache. A bruise blooms on my thigh from his flailing as I wrestled him into submission.
Meanwhile, a different toddler howls for Mama, hurling Hot Wheels at the wall, chipping away at the fresh paint of our new apartment, which we’ll be charged exorbitantly for if it’s not touched up. Outside, unpacked boxes clutter the patio; our recent move has left little room for our belongings—mostly kid-related chaos.
In the kitchen, my ambitions of being a “crunchy” mom are dashed as my food processor lies broken, its motor fried from my failed attempt at homemade almond butter. A clump of expensive, quasi-puréed almonds finds its way to the trash, and there goes a $10 bill. An empty sippy cup sits in the living room, the rubber no-spill valve dislodged and likely thrown around during the latest tantrum.
A sour smell permeates the house, and when I ask my mischievous toddler where he spilled the milk, he just giggles and runs away. Ants parade along the bathroom’s edge, carrying away bits of granola bar, even after I’ve repeatedly instructed the boys to keep their snacks in the kitchen. The fridge holds an empty egg carton, and a cookie recipe beckons from the counter, requiring two eggs. My two boys are inconsolable, screaming for the promised cookies.
There’s a baby gate lying on the floor, and one toddler has managed to get into the litter box. To my horror, there’s cat waste in his mouth. Kitty litter sticks to my socks as I ponder the vacuum in the closet—full filter, full trash can. My mind is a flurry of “fucks” muttered under my breath (and sometimes out loud), with fruit flies buzzing around despite the absence of fruit.
My head pounds in rhythm with the incessant theme song of a children’s show, and I count down the minutes until Daddy returns—57 minutes left…56 minutes and 54 seconds…56 minutes and 48 seconds.
A burning sensation fills my eyes, reminiscent of that optometrist test where they puff air directly into them. I just want to close my eyes, but I have to endure. I am being pushed to my limits. Stress and anger swirl around me, accompanied by chaos and frustration. There is no fight left in me, only tears—so many tears.
Tears cling to my lashes, blurring my view of the mess. They stream down my cheeks, soaking the strands of hair that the kids yanked from my ponytail during storytime. As they drip onto my sweatpants, next to the glob of yogurt flung at me during lunch, I realize these tears should cleanse me, but they don’t. They tumble down like a hurricane, leaving me feeling more broken.
Then, in a moment of unexpected grace, two thin arms wrap around me—not in a typical toddler chokehold. A tiny face, with perfect lips, pouts in my direction. Two beautiful hazel eyes reflect my own, filled with the tender concern of a child. A sweet voice breaks through the chaos: “I love you, Mama.” And just like that, everything else fades away.
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