The fog. That very memorable time in a mom’s life where she quite literally floats through the days and nights that feel like forever. The time where people say phrases meant to be helpful like “this too shall pass” and “the days are long, but the years are short,” but the fog is too thick to appreciate them. The realization that once you’ve moved past the fog, you find it almost impossible to understand how you actually made it through the fog.
Don’t get me wrong; the fog is beautiful.
The slow mornings where time loses its stronghold on your life. The flexible schedule where cuddling and naps are welcome at any time and 2am lullabies are the norm. The realization that dishes can wait, laundry will still be there, and comfortable pajamas and lounge sets are the only clothes you crave. When every noise and every movement is special and you wonder if life will ever really start moving again as it once did. Maybe you crave your old routine back and maybe you don’t, and no way you feel is right or wrong.
Then one day, unexpectedly, you realize that the fog is lifting.
You aren’t needed for every snack, every cup of water, every trip to the potty. Your shower curtain doesn’t get pulled back by tiny hands every two minutes (now it’s a solid 10 minutes), your bed doesn’t get crawled into every single night. Parenting is still your full-time job, but there are also moments for you. Moments where you can read a book for 15 minutes without interruption, where you can fold a load of laundry without a curious toddler undoing all you did, and where every once in a while, you feel yourself coming back to…well…yourself. The fog is beginning to lift.
I felt the fog begin to lift this year.
My youngest son turns five soon and over winter break, I actually had moments where I got to do a few things for myself. I wasn’t in the trenches of parenting 24/7 over the holidays. I got to read a little, walk on the treadmill while they colored beside me, put them to bed and have them actually stay in bed so my husband and I could (gasp) watch TV, and just spend 15 minutes here and there doing things that made ME happy. It was a great feeling after spending the last nine years putting myself and my wants/needs last. That’s not a jab at my kids; that’s the reality of being a mother deep in the fog of mothering.
But some days I feel that the fog is lifting too quickly.
I find myself wanting time to stand still right where we are. I find myself not wanting kindergarten to come because I know from experience that it all changes in kindergarten. I don’t want the voices to change, the little hands grabbing mine in a parking lot to stop, and the hugs that heal all kinds of things to get shorter. The fog feels safe. It’s our little bubble of protection where most of the world is still unknown to them and I’m their compass, their gauge, and their safe space.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that there’s beauty in the fog, safety in the fog, and comfort in the fog, but the fog doesn’t last forever. It can’t. Eventually it begins to fade, burn away if you will, and it’s exciting and scary and emotional all at the same time.
