Not Quite Mother of the Year Material!

I used to be obsessed with Oprah. You can mock me, judge me, think less of me. I don’t care. I watched her religiously because she was all about empowering women. All women are beautiful. All women are strong. All mothers are amazing. So yesterday, as I sat sobbing on the bathroom floor, I was wondering what Oprah would think of me now. 

Here is what transpired:

I had been up really late working the night before (I work from home, so bedtime for the girls means work time for me). My girls, in an apparent race to beat the rooster, are up before dawn. And although I am half asleep, I whip up a mean batch of pancakes and eggs, feed both girls, bathe both girls, and dress both girls all before 8am. I am on a roll. I leave my 10-month-old, Claire, in her highchair with a sippy cup, plop my 3-year-old, Cora, at the table with a box of crayons and a coloring book, and race to take a 5-minute shower.

I emerge, wrapped in a towel with hair still dripping, to see how much damage has been done (if you know Cora, you know there will be damage). Crayons all over the floor? Not bad. Half the contents of our game closet emptied out? Manageable. An entire cup of yogurt spread evenly on both girls after a failed attempt on Cora’s part to feed her younger sister? Although it is nothing new, I’m officially annoyed.

Still in my towel, I drag both girls back to the tub. I get Claire cleaned off, minus the yogurt that has found a permanent home inside her ear, and dressed. Again. I take her to the playroom hoping to buy me enough time to retrieve Cora. In the time it takes me to pluck Cora from the bath, wrap her in a towel and set her on the couch, Claire has managed to find the only black, permanent marker in the entire house not under lock and key. Like everything she gets her hands on, she eats it. Her lips are black, her teeth are black, her tongue is black. Off to the bathroom we go. Claire is wailing, I am scrubbing; neither one of us getting results.

The doorbell rings. The mail lady would just like me to know there is a naked little blond girl on a princess bike pedaling her heart out down the street. She has contained her laughter until Claire flashes her a black, toothy grin. She is laughing so hard she is almost in tears as she offers to hold Claire while I throw some clothes on.

Five minutes later and order is almost fully restored. And by almost, I mean not even close. Cora is screeching and flailing her legs as I try to dress her and comb her hair. I am in systematic mode now. Shirt. Check. Shorts. Check. Hair brushed. Check. Claire. Crap. She has escaped. I find her giggling in the bathroom as she splashes toilet water all over herself and the bathroom floor. I grab the mop and attempt to balance Claire while I mop up the mess.

Suddenly Cora changes personalities and decides to be mommy’s little helper. I welcome the change and hand over the mop.

Returning to the bathroom, Claire now in her 3rd outfit of the day, we find Cora dipping the mop in the toilet and proceeding to “clean” the entire bathroom. She is wading in an inch of toilet water, wiping down the now soggy toilet paper, the towels, the decorative candles. The trash can has tipped over and old diapers, pads and toilet paper rolls begin using their last absorbing abilities to aid in soaking up the flood.

I exit the bathroom, place Claire in her crib, wash Cora’s feet off and set her in front of the free babysitting service Nickelodeon provides. Then I retreat to the bathroom, empty the trash, bleach the floors, change the towels and the toilet paper rolls, and collapse, sobbing in the corner. I no longer believe a word that comes out of Oprah’s mouth. I am not strong. I am not amazing. I am not in charge. I am exhausted, mentally drained, and near a breaking point. Good thing is, I get to get up and do it all again tomorrow. A second chance to perfect the chaos. Um, yippee?