In 15 years I’ll be getting this exact look from this exact person, who will be lounging in this exact position.

I made it.

Kindergarten starts on Monday, Mother’s Day Out begins the following week, and I joined a ladies-only gym that offers two hours of childcare per day. I’ve reached the end of a two-week-long tunnel and the light is so, so bright.

When I quit my job to become a stay-at-home mom I did not understand what I was choosing to do. I mean, yeah, I wanted to be the one taking care of my kids. I wanted to be there for it all — the wonderful and the horrible. As I began this journey fresh off the working woman boat, those were just abstract ideas. And now, I’m in the thick of it. The wonderful and the horrible. And let me tell you … it’s terrifying.

Today, the usual chaos was whirling around me: baby crying as I tried to feed her, shouting over her head for Maverick to SHUT THE DOOR BEFORE YOUR BROTHER ESCAPES! as water was poured all over the floor and hot pink handprints, the product of ground-up sidewalk chalk mixed with water and made into a paste, were plastered all over our walls. I set the baby down and locked my oldest outside until I could help him get cleaned up, much to his displeasure. My middle child threw a tantrum in the middle of the kitchen, banging his head in frustration against the linoleum floor.

All three of them were crying, and I felt tears begin to prick at my own eyes as I thought, “I can’t do this. I don’t WANT to do this.” 

But as the chaos slowly, gradually petered out and I gathered my wits, I was able to settle each of them down while mulling over two thoughts. First, I think parenting solo would be much easier if I was numb. Like, heavily medicated. Or very drunk. Second, I realized that just like I to wake up every day and make the conscious choice to love my husband and honor him, I also have a choice to make when it comes to my children. I could go back to work if I wanted to, but is that truly what I want? The grass always seems greener on the other side when you’re locked in a pasture with small, loud, tyrants. Truthfully, I love taking care of my tyrants and I wouldn’t want anyone else to have to deal with their wonderful, horrible ways because they might not yell at them as lovingly as I do.

Nothing about this life is glamorous or easy. The grass here is so beaten down and strewn with toys that I couldn’t tell you if it’s green or not. But when it’s quiet, and I lie down in it, it sure feels cozy.

Now that Husband and I have found ourselves in this place, the place of having three little kids, one income, and not enough time or money, we are just trying to carry on. He carries on, I carry on, and the children … well … they persist. Day by day, hour by hour, we inch forward. I brush their teeth and load them into grocery carts and make sure no one is sitting in poop by nothing but sheer will.  

Thank God for maternal determination, guardian angels, coffee, and the world wide web.

The orange-and-white pajamas I bought to wear “after the baby is born” finally fit! It’s a good day.

This week was … something. There are Elmer’s glue handprints all over our couch. Asher removed his wet diaper and tried to flush it down the toilet after he threw up in his sister’s room and played in it.

He got into the Bisquik AGAIN.

Maverick (with his severe outdoor allergies) ran out into the freshly-cut grass, stripped down to his underwear, laid down and made a “grass angel” in the clippings while I talked to Joe, our yard man. I kind of ignored it, hoping Joe wouldn’t notice. 

He did.

Things were eaten that shouldn’t have been. Snow cones were dropped, heads were knocked, knees were skinned, tears were shed, games were played, and there was so. much. laughter.

I always tell the ridiculous stories about my children … and believe me, there are many that I don’t share. Like the time that the camp director called to tell me that Maverick got in trouble at naptime for pulling the stuffing out of his sleeping bag, and when he was asked to stop, he started cramming it up his nose.

But I don’t talk enough about the magic. This week was tough. There were many moments where I felt like I was on a ride that wouldn’t stop and I WANTED OFF NOW. But in the midst of all the madness, there is magic. You may not believe me … I probably wouldn’t if I were you … but I promise I’m telling the truth. 

There is magic in the quiet moments where I just hold one child, and my attention is only on that one little person and no one else.

There is magic in the moment where I realize that my oldest son knows how to clean up his own messes. Wash his own hair. Make his own sandwich. When he remembers to put the toilet seat down.

There is magic when my middle child spontaneously starts singing “Happy Birthday” to no one in particular. He’s 23 months old. Who taught him that? I’d like to thank whoever it was, because it’s awesome.

There is magic when my 8-week-old baby coos at me. When she smiles. She’s taking it all in, and she seems to like us anyway. Which is something.

Sometimes I get so sick of all of it. I get tired of never having money and the constant cycle of cleaning up after people and the nonstop demands. But then, it’s bedtime. And one by one, I put them in pajamas. I hold their small hands and pray with them and ask God to help me be a good mother and thank You for getting us through the day. 

I feel their bodies relax — finally — as I tuck them in. Each one.

This is why, at the end of such an insane week, I am still happy. I’ve DONE something with my time that stretched on for eternity, even when it felt like I was accomplishing nothing. Suddenly the week is done, I survived, and it wasn’t that bad at all. 

Magic.