There’s a meme making the internet rounds that has given so many HOPE. I’ve read many posts revealing a mother’s deepest wishes for their children and thought-provoking posts about identity in the confusing time of new motherhood. They are heartwarming and inspiring. This is not one of those.
I hope to stop chastising myself for potty training my son so young because 15 months later he is still deucing in his Baby Bjorn plastic crapper.
I hope that one day when I decide to go to bed after midnight because I can’t pry myself away from Twitter, that my children will not conspired to wake up at 530am soaked in urine (yes, both of them).
I hope to one day stop sticking a diaper wipe deep in the recesses of my daughter’s vagina and coming up shit streaked.
I hope that I will stop saying, to no one in particular, that at 18-months my son knew every single letter of the alphabet, upper and lower case, along with a vocabulary of 80 words, and yet my daughter communicates in a series of clear and concise grunts.
(I hope to stop blaming myself for that.)
I hope that one day I can serve something more nutritious than cream cheese and my kids will eat it.
I hope that one day, when I’m at BlogHer and my husband texts me a picture of the kids having fun and laughing, I will not automatically think to myself “that dress hasn’t fit C in 3 months,” and “where did he even FIND that?”
I hope to go eight SECONDS on the computer without hearing “Mommy, mommy, mommymommymommymommymommy,” usually followed by a loud bang and crying. But alas, we aren’t there yet and I should check on those little runts.
I hope there’s no blood on my new duvet.
Melanie Crutchfield will be holding “Closing Ceremonies” today and will gather up little snippets from people who wrote about hope.
Thanks for reading!