Piled

The times when you need respite, when you need your sanity, when you need a break or you’ll die, are usually not attributed to the “big” things. It’s the little things that pile up that make you crazy.

It’s having to make Olivia’s bed at least 3 times a day. Either because she has peed, or pooped or simply because she takes off all of her bedding right after I make it. Every single day. Multiple times a day.

It’s cleaning up her room only to go back 5 minutes later and discover that all of the Barbies, hats, books, Slinkys, and stuffed animals have been dumped all over her floor.

It’s walking in to a room covered in baby wipes. Or a bathroom with an entire roll of toilet paper unwound and thrown in the toilet, along with a bottle of melatonin that you just bought, the boys’ new toothbrushes and a hand towel. Yet again I find myself sticking my hand in a toilet.

It’s forgetting to lock her closet and having her take all of the clothes out of her drawers, all of her clothes off the hangers, all of her extra stuffed animals and toys and throw them across the floor.

It’s getting home from a long day of a Boy Scout picnic where she spilled two drinks, hit a girl and threw cookies at a boy, and then sitting through soccer practice, only to discover that she threw her beloved stuffed cat out the window at some point on the drive home. Your friend tells you to leave it but you know if you don’t go find that damn cat you’ll hear nothing else but “Where’s Figaro?” accompanied with big, fat tears until another one appears.

It’s cutting up food so she doesn’t choke, it’s putting on a bib so she doesn’t wreck her clothes, it’s making sure doors are locked, gates are closed, lids are on tight, everything is safe for your little girl because you can’t turn your back for a second.

It’s the big things too, of course, but it’s the little ones that pile up and make you feel like you’ve run a marathon every day…with your body, with your mind and with your heart. It’s knowing you would do anything for her, you love her so much it hurts, it’s being her mother. It’s life. And sometimes it gets piled up and is just so hard.

So you share your burden with a friend, with your Mom, with your mother-in-law, with your husband. Just being allowed to express how hard it is feels like sweet relief. It’s exhausting and it’s not easy, plain and simple. But we do it because we have to and we love her. When the pile gets too big though, it’s wonderful to know that you’re not alone.