Don't worry, Mother: there's time for sleep when the children are grown

This was published in the Friday, October 25, 1991 Salt Lake Tribune.          

      I have two well behaved, adorable children: ages 3 ½ and 1 ½.

                They do what they are told, clean up their toys, stay right by my side at the mall and never throw a tantrum when things don’t go their way.

                Unfortunately, they were both switched at birth (imagine the odds against this!).  Somewhere my real girls are sleeping through the night and their “parents” are waking up after eight uninterrupted  hours of sleep to get their little ones dressed in clothes that will stay clean more than 15 minutes.

                Meanwhile, I am taking care of two active, real children, who conspire against me to make sure I never really sleep or rest again.  Oh sure, I’m a better person for this.  Hey, I can live on 15 minutes of sleep.  Sleep I got standing over the sink listening to the garbage disposal consume the meal my children didn’t. 

                It’s not that my children are worse than others.  It’s not that I have more problems than other mothers.  It’s just that being a parent of any children not made out of cardboard is tough.  One million times I’ve looked at my husband and said, “What were they thinking of?”

                Seven years of luxurious selfish childless marriage come to mind.  One million times he’s put his hand to his ear and said, “What did you say?  I can’t hear anything over the spoon banging on the plate.”

                My children are probably no different from yours.  They don’t eat what they should and beg for what they shouldn’t have.  They cry, they scream, they scream, they carry on.  They wake up at night, they get their ear infections on all major holidays and have never yet missed an opportunity to throw up when we have a babysitter.

                I spend my days with my girls.  I wrestle my baby to the floor to get her dressed, chase her to wipe her nose.  I pick up the same toys 300 times a day.  I have not really been in an upright position in years.  I have this baby who translates the word “no” to mean “try again harder.”  Both children challenge me.  My younger runs into the street and looks over her shoulder as to say, “Come on I double dare you to catch me.”  My 3 year old brags that she’s tougher than I.  (She may be.  I’m weak from sleep deprivation!)

                As a mother of toddlers, I spend time playing with my children.  My 3 year old likes to pretend and since her sister doesn’t know the rules of the game yet, I’m her partner.  The list of people and things I’ve pretended to be this month is incredible.

                “Pretend you’re Susan, Lisa’s mom, and I’m Lisa,” she’ll say.  “Pretend you’re grandpa.  Pretend you’re Dave, Susan’s husband and Lisa’s Dad.”  I get so confused.  I can’t remember who I am.  The other day she had me Susan, Lisa’s mom and Dave’s wife, sitting on the front steps singing, “I’m waiting for Lisa to come home, come home” to the tune of who knows what.  And my mind has lost so many brain cells since I had children that I did it!  And there were four construction workers outside next door, mind you.

                I saw them shake their heads, roll their eyes and make gagging mouth gestures.  In the last two weeks, I’ve had to pretend I was also her pre-school teacher, a fireman, policeman, a swimming pool and even Jesus.

                “Jesus, this is my swing set,” she said as she took me on a yard tour.  “There are our tomato plants…”  The real test came the other day when she asked me (no, told me) to pretend I was her real mom.  That was a tough assignment.

                My smaller one, affectionately called the beast, is into the tantrum stage.  She has turned into the child “I’d never have.”  You know the things we used to say our children would never do.

                “My child will never go out in dirty clothes.  My child will never hit other children.  My child will never crawl across the entire distance of the Sandy Post Office on her stomach with her mouth on the germ ridden floor!  (The last example was purely fictional- my child would never do that.)  She has a set of lungs an opera singer would covet, tears the size of olives and a will stronger than iron.  It’s these kinds of challenges that have had me to the conclusion that someone else has my real children and I’ve got theirs.

                All kidding aside, I love being a mother.  I wouldn’t trade my girls for the world.  I love hearing them laugh when Mommy trips over the garden hose, chasing one away from the street and the other out of the driver’s seat of the car. 

                I love hearing the new words they learn…”Go away” and “No way” being the only ones we can print here.  I love the dandelions they pick and mash up for me to eat.  I love the baths I give them and the way I slide across the bathroom floor when we’re finished.  I love watching the news being rebroadcast at 3 a.m. while I’m rocking one of them.  But I also love their sun-tanned little arms around my neck and the “I love yous” and the giggles and the grins and their sweet baby snoring when I check them at night.

                You know what? Maybe they are my real children!  I think I’ll keep them. I can always sleep when they’re grown up and don’t need me anymore.