I was up for the better part of the night with an achy, fevery baby. She’s let me out of her sight maybe once today so I could feed the other kids who are home sick from school. I’ve held her to pee, nursed her for comfort and tried not to scream when she bit my nipples because she’s sensitive and would surely go into hysterics adding to the mountain of Kleenex that are the result of her gratuitously runny nose.
My brain is mush, my teeth are furry and I’m pretty sure I smell. I’ve been bra free all day, letting my enormous milk bags dangle free for the taking whenever Cupcake needed or wanted to nurse, because this is the only thing that keeps her from sobbing.
As the day progresses, the big kids are miraculously recovered from their death beds and have made an elaborate fort in the boys’ room complete with a “shower” and a separate “bathroom” under the desk. I worry about this briefly as they give the tour, but my attention is quickly directed back to Cupcake’s runny nose and I’m off in search of a new box of tissues. Just as I’ve settled in to select the latest episode of Fixer Upper from the DVR while my sick little peanut is passed out on me, I am catapulted from my contentment to the fresh hell I had momentarily worried about a bit earlier. “Mom! Soy just peed under the desk!” Of course he did.
Reality TV could not handle this family. People would revolt and point their judging fingers at the piles of dishes, pillows and tissues. I would be criticized for a number of things starting with my disheveled, freed-boob-appearance and fuzzy unbrushed hair. Mothers everywhere would cringe at the thought of me making the 3YO clean his own pee pee from under the desk, because I refused to do it after learning it was no accident but a pull-the-undies-down-and-aim decision.
As much as I enjoy watching pretty and staged reality shows, I thank the good sweet Lord people can’t see what’s really going on over here. They. Would. Die.