Why mothers need a trophy… everyday

Why mothers need a trophy… everyday

I deserve a trophy. Actually all mothers do. One made with the world’s finest chocolate and filled with expensive champagne, preferably connected to a portal with a bottomless pitcher that permits automatic replenishment once drained.

Why you ask. Because of the crap we have to put up with. And sometimes that’s in the literal sense. Like just when our butts hit the pot, there’ll be a knocking on the door; and the rest of the relieving process will be accompanied by the soundtrack of ‘Mama Mama’.

Or trying to go to bed but there’s a wind-up bunny that the kid insists on tugging at, and we have to listen to ‘Fur Elise’ seventy two times before they eventually nod off to sleep. And now we hate Beethoven.

Or having to spend a considerable portion of the day playing detective in the ‘What’s that smell’ game and hunt around for scraps of food or poop accidentally deposited in some obscure corner of the house.

Or when we take the effort to dig a decent children’s risotto recipe, and then go buy organic arborio rice and MSG-free chicken stock and stir away to get the right level of squishiness; only to have it whiffed at and rejected with a wave of a hand and a display of the new addition to their vocabulary- ‘No!’

Or when the smart TV acts like a PMS-ing pain in the butt, refusing to let Youtube load, and the demands for ‘Mother Goose Club’ are not met leading to tantrums galore.

Or having to wait as they insist upon climbing down two flights of stairs on their own. Slowly. Carefully. We start to imagine a wrinkled, grey-haired version of ourselves at the end of the journey.

Or knowing that this list is really endless, but we have to run now because there has been silence for too long and such peace usually means trouble…


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