Motherhood

The sandy-haired little boy stood in his blue jumper next to his mom’s car in the heavily trafficked street.  His mother fiddled with something in the backseat while herself standing on the sidewalk, completely oblivious to the potential peril of her toddler who was on the other side of the car from her standing in the street.  I stopped my car and yelled to her through my open window, “He’s going to get hit because they won’t see him—do you want to grab your kid?”  “I know, I know,” she responded haughtily but didn’t grab her kid.

“Some mother,” I thought to myself.   I judged her harshly.  Whatever she was fiddling with was not worth risking the safety of her child on a busy street with people hurrying to take their children to school and the seniors rushing to daily Mass.  I’ve had Emily in the bathroom stall with me at crowded malls because I wouldn’t risk having something happen to her if she waited outside the stall. Trust me, there’s nothing like having your child handing you toilet paper and sanitary napkins when all you really want is two minutes of private time.

Motherhood inherently inconveniences the mother—chores that would take twenty minutes take forty because little hands want to help.  You stop what you’re doing, mid-stride, to check on your child who’s being just too quiet.  You have plans for the evening and the kid’s running a fever; you cancel the plans.  It’s just the way it is.

Motherhood comes with sleepless nights and unrelenting days.  There’s plenty of joy, but there’s plenty of responsibility.  And that woman’s responsibility was the safety of her toddler, and she could have cared less.