No one told me about the sleep thing

I remember when the first was born.  After I repeatedly asked the doctor if I was dying and being lied to about what a champ I was being, I squeezed a 7 pounder out of my little self.  She cried, like she was supposed to.  I oohed and ahhed, like I was supposed to.  We settled in, as did the sun, and my exhausted body let the nurse change the baby’s shockingly black tarred diaper as she began to explain to me the basics of motherhood.  

Just wake her up every couple of hours to feed her.  

Yes.  I remember her saying that.  My mind stopped as it took in what she was saying.  I literally had to intentionally wake myself up at constant intervals throughout the night just to feed this little bundle.  And every mother does this?  I was simultaneously appalled at the reality and impressed at womanhood throughout the ages.  

And so it began.  The surprises that no one mentioned.

Life went from sleeping well to semi consciously waking up at inconsistent intervals throughout the night for the next 8 years.  Every single night.  The bed was peed in.  The child threw up.  The kid needed to know how fast a cheetah could run.  The baby just wanted to suck on me more.  The sister couldn’t sleep through the little one’s snoring.  The halloween images around town were too haunting.  And, enjoyably, the middle one would come in to find me in bed and settle in for a sleepy snuggle.  

Life went from sitting down while eating to just trying to corral the troops to the table, hoping they’d eat enough as I tried to make sure the food wasn’t too hot, was edible, and registered on the nutrition charts as food.  Then, eating the scraps left by the littles and cleaning up...to be followed by the first request for a snack.  

Life went from people telling me I looked so young for my age - so childlike and youthful - to staring at growing wrinkles and no more comments.  They sure do take a toll, these little people.

I went from a calm and collected and laid back girl who lifted weights to a partially or fully stressed out, disheveled, unkempt, and often cranky lady who lifted children.

It went from taking care of my own washroom needs to cleaning up more poop and pee than I’d ever considered a possibility.  Pooped in sweatpants are a doozy to salvage.  

My existence consisted of taking care of me.  Not driving around 7 chickens, wild cats and car fulls of children simultaneously.  

But for some reason, my kids are mine and I am theirs.  Maybe, as some would say, they chose me to be their mom.  Maybe, as others would say, the genes all fell into place through pure science and evolution and we are but a speck in the cosmos and ages.  

Whatever the reason, we are here and that’s all we have.  It’s the way she sings to entertain herself with her self composed melodies and the look he gets when I suggest he does another running jump into the airplane position on my feet.  It’s how she gets her sister ready for the day when no one is looking and sneaks a little sister snuggle.  And how they hold their kittens and collect their eggs.  The way they ask questions incessantly and just need to be seen.  

This motherhood thing is no walk in the park.  It’s no full night’s sleep or rainbow sprinkled sundae.  

But those full nights of sleep are going to come.  And I have a feeling I’ll be waking myself up and remembering fondly these crazy days.