Parenting. It’s so hard to describe.
It is witnessing the most beautiful sights in the world.
It is seeing nothing else but your children, no matter what else surrounds you.
It is a million gray hairs that appear instantly, overnight, the second you start trying to conceive.
It is giving up glamour and adopting Hello Kitty Couture.
It is really, really, gross.
It is perpetual cleaning, without ever a clean house to show for it.
It is silly and hilarious and fun.
And full of dinosaurs.
It is absolutely, terrifyingly, loud, panic-inducing, and oh-my-goodness-i-don’t-know-what-i’m-doing-ing.
It is sometimes seeing yourself in it’s ugliest, strangest form, almost unrecognizable.
It is an endless stream of dirty dishes. Real ones and pretend ones. Who knew pretend picnics required so much cleaning?
It is backpain, current or impending, but completely unavoidable.
It is using a doll highchair as a table to conveniently hold your wine.
It is drinking coffee. A LOT of coffee.
It is your child serving herself pretend juice, water, milk, or tea, but only serving you pretend coffee. She is an attentive waitress.
It is never having enough bananas. “I need more bananas! A LOT more bananas! (Even though she already has bananas).
It is saying, “Just one more picture, please!” and hearing “stop taking pictures, Mom!” A phase that starts so much earlier than you are ready for.
It is managing an attitude, a force that both awes and scares you, that begins from day 0.5.
It is seeing yourself in your children.
It is a million trips to the grocery store for items like this (all of which are worth every penny).
It is simultaneously horrifically ugly and absolutely beautiful.
It is wanting to look like this:
But really looking like this:
But, it is looking like this to them. Which reminds you that it doesn’t really matter what you look like.