Today’s post is an homage to moms.
Because, for crying out loud.
As if motherhood itself isn’t enough, this generation of gals is going to experience it amidst a global pandemic. While we work from home. With no childcare. And make organic meals with cauliflower crusts and refinance our homes and throw socially distant birthday parades with pretty sugar cookies and themes like, “Maverick is One-Derful.”
It’s like when I bought a condo before the economy collapsed in 2008 because my Boomer told me real estate never lost its value.
I ended up “short-saleing” said condo in 2011 for less than the worth of the car I parked under the complex’s rusted canopy. Soon after, I moved back in with my mom for three months to get my life together and laid in my childhood twin bed thinking, “What in the actual hell just happened? I did exactly as I was told. How did I end up here?”
I never, in a million years, could have guessed that a pandemic would hit and I’d be serving every meal of the day in my kitchen to two people who somehow manage to deposit at least 50% of the meals to the floor and then demand Daniel Tiger before I even have a chance to fetch a broom.
Parks, Libraries, and Ava
This is a piece that will not display my writing ability so much as my vulnerability as a woman and as a human being right now at this particular point on the timeline.
This is in no way written to say I have it the hardest.
I know I don’t.
I know there are essential worker moms and single moms and underresourced moms with plates twenty times fuller than mine.
But today, all I wanted was for someone to say, “Sarah. This all is a complete shitstorm and it’s so hard that everyone is in survival mode and anyone who says they’re not is lying.” I just needed someone to listen to me today and if I felt like that, I know some other moms must have felt the same way.
This one’s for you, Ladies.
Once COVID is behind us, if I never see another park again until the day I die, I truly will not care. I have been to the park so many times since it reopened back in June or whenever the hell month that was that I feel like I need to wear Joey Gladstone’s Ranger Joe park ranger uniform instead of leggings and athlesiure.
Each morning at the park, I recite the same lines from my Pandemic Momming script.
“Maverick. We don’t eat woodchips. That’s caca poo poo.”
“Maeve, we’re not eating snacks right now. Mom didn’t pack snacks.
“Sunscreen helps our skin stay nice and healthy and not get burned by the sun. Okay, let’s put some sunscreen on our best guy and best girl!”
Because what the hell else are you supposed to do with a one year old and a three year old when there’s a global pandemic going on and you can’t go anywhere? After about a half hour in the living room, people start getting real salty.
Go for an hour long walk?
Did that in March and April. They’re not allowing me to lure them to the stroller with enticing garbage treats like Slim Jims and Handi-Snacks anymore.
Also, I have never longed for a library to open the way I long for Mr. Jordan from the Ferndale Public Library to bring out his God-forsaken guitar and lead my child in an acoustic version of The Wheels on The Bus. Not being able to take these little people anywhere is starting to wear on me. Correction. It’s not starting to wear on me. It’s worn me down.
In the early days of the pandemic, mid-March, Maeve missed her friend, Ava, from Suzi’s, so badly that she started calling me Ava. So obviously, I played along until I could no longer mentally handle the identity theft.
“Ava!” Maeve screamed. “Come push me on the swing, Ava.”
Another woman more tolerant than I may have said, “Here I come, Maeve.”
But I was so done with pretending to be a six foot tall five year old that I said, “I am not Ava today, Babe. We’re going to see her next week, but today, I want you to call me Mama.”
Maeve looked at me like I told her she couldn’t have a pony for her birthday.
I guess, in her defense, she didn’t ask to be a three year old in a pandemic.
Meal Time
When I was a little girl, my mom used to tell me about how the Virgin Mary appeared in Medugorje, a town in Bosnia, to a group of small children.
I keep waiting for the Virgin Mary to show up as a premonition on Maverick’s high chair tray because I clean it so many times per day. I want her to appear and say to me, “It’s okay, Sarah. This will all be over soon. Why don’t I watch the kids for you while you go work out?”
The next time you clean the kitchen after a meal, please. Bow your head in silence over your kitchen sink and know you aren’t alone. I am with you. I am standing here on Oxford Road, wiping down high chair trays and pouring bottles of almond milk, wondering when I’ll ever wear my hair down again.
Hot and Ready
I can always tell when I’m starting to unravel based on what my meals are each day. At one point over these last few months, I was making homemade dinners every day and smoothies for everyone’s breakfast.
Today, I had Little Caesar’s Hot and Ready pizza leftovers dipped in the Garlic Butter sauce while I stood next to the sink and sang nursery rhymes to my kids.
Dinner was toast.
Toast is just lazy. Toast is me sounding the alarm that I am abandoning my roots as a Weight Watchers Lifetime member and throwing in the towel. It’s essentially just bread and butter which is also clearly what I ate for lunch but with some pizza sauce added in.
This Post Is For You If You Need It Today
I had to tell you today that I see you and I know how hard it is.
This isn’t for the weak.
I know some of you are raising babies and some of you are raising teenagers and some of you want to be moms and are being swallowed up by these expansive seas of loneliness.
You aren’t alone. It feels like you’re alone, because chasing these people and serving them food and giving them baths and playing pretend is so all-consuming that you sometimes forget who you even are.
Take this post if you need it today, Mama. I know I did.
Finding My Voice 
Sawyer had imaginary friends at the beginning of the pandemic too. I feel you sister. Love you!
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