"Motherhood" (or "It's Criminal")


Motherhood is last Tuesday morning.  The morning you choose to make waffles for a treat on the too small waffle iron that seemed romantic on the wedding registry.  Waffles are made and doled out, two squares at a time, with you at the end of the queue. Every time it seems like you might be able to eat, a child calls out, "one more, Mommy?" 

And just as it seems your moment has come, 45 minutes later, long after the kids are done, and you sit down with your waffles and newspaper with a sigh, both children (soon after exchanging a glance - how else could they coordinate?) yell at the top of their lungs "poop!"  As if there has never been an emergency so great as at that moment.  So you leave the waffles to get everyone where they need to be on time: "go, go, go!"  As you hustle along, you make sure the underwear is out of the way, and upon request deliver the proper reading materials. 

With everything settled, you return to your cold waffles, but with grunting on the potty ten feet away and the other in the powder room still within sight, you've mostly lost your appetite.  And now the living room no longer smells like waffles.  As you go to open a window, you do so in frustration, and your hand slips, and you rap you knuckles hard on the sill.  "Arg!" you proclaim (though you want to say something saltier), as you shake your hand in pain.  And just then, you daughter jumps up: "oh, mommy!  Oh, mom!  You okay?  Me kiss, me kiss!"  She runs over to kiss your hand and hug your leg.  And then your ovaries betray you and launch chemical warfare on your logic and you can't help but think, "I suppose another might be nice."


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