So to combat the spiraling vortex of motherhood doldrums, I am posting three small successes that make me feel like I am doing something–anything!–right.

My children recognize Elvis Presley songs–I guess I play them enough on my iPod!  I’m proud that they recognize and sing along to Elvis.  Furthermore, they are reverent of Elvis the King and always call him as such.  Never just Elvis, or even Elvis Presley.  Nope.  He is always referred to as Elvis the King.

I am not ever bothered in the middle of the night if my kids awaken.  They know to go to Daddy.  Even as a baby, Cupcake would shout, “Daaaaaaddy!” from her crib.  These days, the kids simply head to The Husband’s side of the bed if they need something.

I am teaching my kids which sports team to love, and which we don’t.  Bito intrinsically knows that the Yankees are a hated team and automatically roots against them.  And anytime the Redskins are mentioned or a Redskins logo is spotted, Cupcake and BabyMuffin automatically shout, “Go Redskins!”

Small successes indeed, but at this point, I’ll take them.

I turned into an empty aisle and came across a youngster in a half filled cart.  Like, an under two year old boy, all alone.  He was sitting in the cargo area of the cart, leaning precariously on one side.  He kept trying to get up to sit on the edge of the cart.

I looked around and didn’t see anyone one nearby that seemed to be keeping an eye on him.  The boy gurgled and smiled at me as he threw one leg over the side of the cart.

“Uh oh!”  I exclaimed, still trying to find someone who would claim this child.

Nobody was around.

And so I did what any mother would do.  I stayed with the boy and made sure he was safe.  We played my kids’ favorite I’m Bored games to keep him distracted–peekaboo, buzzing tickling fingers, chomping hands…

Soon enough, although it felt like a long time, a frazzled-looking woman rushed into the aisle and looked startled to see me playing with her son.  The child and I were laughing at this point but I could tell she regarded me suspiciously.

I told her she has a charming baby, and I was on my way.

Maybe I should have done more.  I don’t know.  I just hope that if it were my kid, someone trustworthy would occupy him and ensure his safety too.

So it seems fair to me that I should be allowed to exit at the moment The Husband enters the house.  I’m not being completely unreasonable, right?  I need the break and want desperately to leave my Mommy-hat behind…maybe until the next morning.  Or the next week.  Or the next month.  Whatever.

Okay, so my desire to quit being Mommy for a long while isn’t completely fair to The Husband.  He is an excellent Husband and Dad, and he understands that the Introvert in me is zapped by the constant people-time that is my day as a Mommy.  He tries to give me as much of a break as possible.  I hole myself up in the farthest point in the house away from the kids and attempt to let my mind reset.  I read.  I knit.  I catch up on the internet.  Anything, as long as it is done in solitude.

Soon, way too soon, however, I hear The Husband calling for me.  Or the kids come find me.  It’s Family Time.  Dinner.  More conversation.  I try not to snap at The Husband, who just wants to talk to me and the kids, catch up on our day.  I feel attacked from all sides as the four people I love most in the world will.not.shut.up.

The bedtime routine is the final straw.  Doing jammies, teeth, books, songs, prayers, tuck-ins–and heaven forbid it be a bath night!–absolutely does me in.  I collapse at the end of it, unable to form coherent sentences and my eyes glazed over.

The next day, it begins all over again.

The mad rush, the searches to find the perfect gift, the craziness, the commercialism, the traffic, the crowds, the cost…

Don’t get me wrong.  Once upon a time, I loved Christmas and all that came with it.  Those were the days when others were making Christmas special for my sake!  Now, however, I am one of the grown-ups who is tasked with making Christmas a delight for others.  I become frantic as I realize all that needs to be done.  It’s not the most enjoyable time of year for me.

Still, I muddle through and do the best I can.  And then, little moments get me:  I am gratified when I see the awe in Cupcake’s eyes.  Hearing BabyMuffin break into chants of, “Kiss-mas kiss-mas kiss-mas,” each time we go into any store that has holiday decorations (and let’s face it:  they all do) makes me realize that it is new and extraordinary to him.  And Bito’s thoughtful calculation of what to say to Santa when he goes to visit him at the mall amazes me with how this holiday is HUGE in his life.

And nevermind the sheer glee of Christmas morning!  That alone may make it worth it.

So that’s The Reason for the Season*.  It’s not about me.  Making the holiday sparkly and wondrous for The Crew is my goal, and of course I’ll work hard to make it exciting for them.  I’ll try to keep that in the front of my mind as I rush around this year.

*I am not ignoring Jesus’ birth as The Reason for the Season.  Honest.

Well, really.  It’s more than just sometimes.  It’s often.

I am the youngest child in my family and was always taken care of.  Life was easy when I knew my parents and sister were looking out for me.  I like knowing someone else is the responsible one who takes care of everything.

These days, it doesn’t really work that way.  I’m The Mommy.  When it comes to my children, I make sure I have my ducks in a row.  I am The Responsible Adult.

Hello, it exhausts me!  I don’t always like staying on top of things.  It’s a lot of work keeping things in order, both physically and mentally.  But I know that life–my family–runs more smoothly when I put forth the effort.

Every now and then, I rebel and do something that I know isn’t a good idea simply because I just don’t want to do the  responsible thing! Like staying up waaaaaay past my bedtime to goof off.  Like, um, now.

I know I’ll pay for this tomorrow…but sometimes, I just want to feel unburdened and that my life is all mine.

Is that so wrong?