In what I am sure is going to be an overarching theme during this entire year, our household was struck with illness once again this past weekend. I keep thinking we’ve tried every sickness that could possibly be spread at daycare, and then…
…and then Cameron starts pussing from the eyes.
So, on Monday (and Tuesday and today) we were quarantined to the house. Dan and I decided that it was my turn to play Stay at Home Parent for the day.
I have to admit to being both excited and apprehensive about this. I simply adored my time at home with Cameron while I was on maternity leave. But since going back to work, I have found those full days with my son tough to get through. Thankfully these days are usually confined to weekends when both Dan and I are parenting, but I still find myself getting burnt out long before nap time.
It took me a while to get good at the stay-at-home Mom and wife thing. By the end of the year-long maternity leave, I had finally fallen into a routine that tackled parenting, cleaning, and cooking all in one day. Now, two and a half months into being a Working Mom, I fully admit that I am doing a lousy job at everything. I am tired all the time, I can’t keep up with any household chores, and I count the minutes until Cameron’s bedtime.
Last time Cameron and I had a sick day together, my grandiose schemes of cleaning the house and being SuperMom were quickly dashed as my son reminded me that child rearing is no walk in the park. I remember sitting in utter defeat while my son stomped around me doing a victory dance. How could this precious little boy and this tiny little apartment conquer me so quickly?
Needless to say, despite it being my sincere desire, I didn’t know if I could handle being a stay-at-home Mom for even a day (or two as it turned out).
It is hard that while I live so many roles, I am not sure if I am doing any of them to the best of my abilities. I am tired at work. My house is a disaster. My husband probably feels neglected more often than not. And I get frustrated when my son wants to spend so much time with me.
On Sunday night, after reading an abundance of books and getting my son to bed, I sat down to take a little break and mentally prepare myself for the full day of solo parenting that would follow. I turned on the television to Extreme Makeover Home Edition and watched a new house be built for a little boy who has brittle-bone disease and his family. If I remember correctly, this very precious nine year old had broken nearly every bone in his body.
I sat there watching with tears in my eyes. I am a mother. I love a precious little boy. My heart ached for this family and for this little boy as it would if he were my own child.
How could I be apprehensive about spending a full day with my baby? How could I count the minutes until bedtime? How could I sigh after Cameron brings me another book and asks to sit on my lap? How could I not cherish every single moment with this precious little boy?
On Monday, I did do the dishes. I did sweep and mop the floor. I did cook dinner. But I did everything I could with my son. I read more books. I got down on the floor and I pushed around cars. I sang songs and I danced and I tickled.
I had a day with my son. And I loved it.
